The Bonds of Blood
by Oisin55
Summary: There was a time when she was a girl who made friends easily and laughed loudly and couldn't care less about the Games. Then everything was taken from her. Except for her life, her will...and her teeth. This is the young woman who went into the Games to earn her chance for revenge and came out a legend. This is Enobaria Malachite. These are the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is the story of Enobaria Malachite, the third in my Victors Trilogy. It exists in the same continuity as 'The Lumberjack and the Tree-Elf,' 'Fall Into the River,' and 'The Victors Project.' Some characters from these will be making appearances, but it is not necessary to read them to understand 'The Bonds of Blood.'**

**A note on the rating. I've chosen to rate this 'T' because it's not going to be overly gratuitous in the violence or trauma. However, this is a fandom based on kids killing kids in a gladiatorial conflict, and this fic doesn't shy away from that reality. I trust that THG fandom is a generally mature one who knows what they're getting into.**

**I am, of course, not Suzanne Collins. Everything familiar is hers.**

**Happy reading!**

**Oisin55**

* * *

I stand at parade rest. Legs apart, hands folded behind my back. My red dress uniform is crisp and immaculate, my black boots so polished that I could see the moon's reflection if I looked down. I don't though. I stare straight ahead, watching the fires consume a stack of wood pallets. Around me, the four hundred cadets of the Training and Peace Institute stand in our companies, from the ten year olds in the front who are trying not to fidget to the twenty-four Gold Tags in the rear, all eighteen year olds about to take the Trials. The stars keep their own watch high above us, tiny gems shining down above the Pit.

In the center of the old limestone quarry, Ahenobarbus Romero, Victor of the First Annual Hunger Games, burns on his pyre.

And, naturally, I'm standing downwind of his sizzling corpse. The pyre was soaked in wine and perfumes and sprinkled with spices, but it's still not enough to cover the sickly sweet stench of roasting flesh. Mountains and sky, I want this damn dog-and-pony show to be over.

They wrapped the corpse in purple and gold silk, placed gold and silver armbands on the withered milky arms and a death mask on his face. There was a choir of children singing a slow funeral dirge, speeches, more songs, and then the lighting of the pyre. All this to celebrate the life of a man no one is really pretending to miss. We've all seen the recording of the first ever Hunger Games where Ahenobarbus butchered his way to a record number of kills that has never been beaten and only been tied once. But that was decades ago. All my life he's been a ghost up in his house in the Victor's Village, wracked with arthritis and a failing and feeble mind before finally succumbing to a heart attack at the age of eighty. In another hour, he'll be nothing but a pile of black bones.

But he was the first. The first Victor. Idolized by every cadet to step through the doors of the Institute since it was built. Revered as a god among the civvies. That's why we're all standing in the Pit, pretending to show our respects.

I really need to pee.

I risk a glance to my left. Maura is standing two columns down, trying to catch my eye. She winks at me and rolls her eyes up to the stars. I suppress a smile. Maura is a year younger than I and twice as daring. She's risking thirty laps around the Pit and fifty chin-ups on top of that by being irreverent during Ahenobarbus's funeral. I glance again. Now she's picking her nose. I snort and quickly smooth my features until I'm certain no one of importance noticed.

Someone else is speaking. Some city councilman. Someone who thinks he's important. His voice is like a power drill boring into my brain. He's standing at the podium on the hastily erected dais with the district's past Victors. I can see the sheen of sweat on his brow in the firelight. Can't blame him. I wouldn't be too comfortable standing with my back to some of our Victors. They've all come out for this. At the far end is the immensely old, immensely fat Tiberius, who's sweating from the effort of breathing despite being fanned by a young boy. On the other end is our most recent Victor, Phoebus, who's standing at parade rest like he's still one of the cadets. Between them, the rest of the Victors look down at the pyre with varying degrees of boredom.

I hold back a yawn and try to find more of my friends. The only one I can see from this angle is Declan, standing under the Victors' dais. I try to catch his eye but he's staring straight ahead, every inch the handsome, disciplined District 2 cadet. No doubt he's trying to live up to the brand new, shiny gold tag hanging around his neck. Or perhaps he's actually taking this seriously. It wouldn't surprise me. Declan was the first boy I practiced kissing when I was fifteen, and then a bit more than kissing a year later. Both times I expected him fall over and shatter like a crystal plate. Stiff as a rock, and not in the fun way. I keep telling him it's too early to treat everything like life-or-death, even if he does want to go into the Hunger Games in two months. That's usually when he gives an exasperated sigh and I blow in his ear.

The Headmistress stands and the man giving his speech abruptly cuts off. Thank Snow. Boudicca glides to the podium and takes his place. She's tall, with silver hair and hard lines marking her face. Her eyes bore into us and I take care to make sure I don't flick even an eyelash out of place.

"The time to pay our respects has passed," she says in a voice that always seems to conjure up images of landslides and barking hounds. "We have honored the life and sacrifice of Ahenobarbus Romero and his ashes will be committed to the vaults next to those of his many tributes. Now, we honor him with our labor and our training. He was the greatest among us. Never again shall his like be seen. Thanks be to the Capitol."

"Honor, strength, justice. For Capitol, country, and duty," we chant back.

The Headmistress returns to her seat as her second-in-command, a sour looking man with a cleft lip named Tigellinus, takes her place.

"Cadets! Attention!"

We snap to attention like the well-oiled machine we are.

"Return to your dormitories. Attend to whatever matters you must before physicals tomorrow. Reflect on what it means to dedicate your whole life to Capitol and country. Lights out in fifteen minutes. Dismissed!"

We salute and the companies march out of the Pit, the Gold Tags leading the way, followed by descending ages. There's only one passage cut into the living stone that leads from the floor of the Pit up into the dormitories, gymnasiums, classrooms, and working facilities of the Institute above us. Slowly, we leave the burning bones of Ahenobarbus behind us and ascend into the clean steel and glass of our home.

I fall back from the rest of the eighteen year olds to where Maura is pushing her way through. I hold out my arm and she immediately links her own through it.

"I thought I was going to _die,_" she moans. "Forget physicals, forget the bloody Games, if one more person got up to tell us about the time Ahenobarbus pissed on his shadow I was ready to throw myself onto the pyre."

I laugh. "You're lucky the Headmistress didn't see you. She would have flayed you alive."

Maura gives an exaggerated wink. "Our dear Headmistress would have had to tear her eyes away from the smoldering bones of the great Ahenobarbus. The way she was looking at him…do you think she'll sleep with his skull for comfort tonight?"

I nudge her in the side. "Don't speak light of the dead, Mauretania. It's ill luck."

She rolls her eyes. "You worry too much, Baria."

"And you don't worry about anything. That's your problem. Well, one of them."

We both laugh. Our verbal barbs are dulled from years of repeated use.

"So," says Maura as we reach the top of the stairs. She checks behind us to make sure none of our fellow cadets are lingering close enough to overhear. "Tonight after lights out at the Three Cousins? It's one sesterce shots night."

I purse my lips. "I don't know. There's a lot more eyes around with the funeral."

She pouts. "Please Baria? Pat promised he would drag Declan along. He needs a drink or two, or a good lay, or he'll wind himself so tight he'll snap at the Trials."

I arch an eyebrow. "So you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart. I see."

Maura crosses her arms. "Yes. And if we all get drunk and start a fight and end up in the brig, it'll be your fault for not chaperoning us."

I throw up my hands. "Well, when you put it like that, it just sounds so damn appealing." Maura smirks. She knows she has me. "Fine. I'll come. But you better not get caught sneaking out, and if you are don't you dare implicate me."

She crosses her arms over her chest in the traditional salute. "Solemn oath. Just like last week. And the week before that. And the week before _that."_

I shove her. "You monster."

Maura sticks out her tongue. "Only a monster can know a monster."

I turn and walk towards the senior girl dorms without another word.

"Goodnight, Baria!" calls Maura behind me. "I'll see you at the track tomorrow morning!"

Snow, could she be more obvious?

The halls of the Training and Peace Institute are quiet as I continue on towards the dorms with the rest of the stragglers. Home sweet home, or as much as a massive complex of steel and glass and concrete where teenagers train to kill other people can be.

The girls' dorms are just past the indoor range where we practice archery and knife throwing. Senior girls sleep on the lowest level. I claimed the bunk nearest to the lavatory when we moved in here almost a year ago. Won it by wrestling two of the other girls for it. Didn't even cheat.

I'm the last one to crawl into the sheets and curl up on the thin, standard issue mattress. Twenty seniors snore around me. They're all asleep; we learn how to distinguish between true sleep and faking it when we're twelve. But I still wait for twenty minutes, counting off the seconds in my head, to make sure none of them are just in a light slumber.

When I'm sure I won't wake anyone, I slide out and slip into the lav. Keep the light off, I know my way around in the dark. There's a small utility window, barely wide enough to slip through, at the end of the stalls. I move the wastepaper bin under it and climb on top. I keep the window latch and hinges well-oiled, and it opens without a sound. I pull myself up and taste the cool night air. I perch gingerly on the ledge, sliding the window shut behind me. There's hardly any room now, so I quickly lower myself down until I'm hanging by my fingers. I take a deep breath, count to three, and drop.

Five feet down I hit solid ground. I roll over my shoulder, letting my body take the fall evenly. I crouch low, listening. Nothing.

The first time I made this daring escape, I stayed frozen for ten minutes as I savored my audacity in leaving the Institute at night. Now I just slink down the hill to the meeting place.

Long ago we chose the rubbish bins because the smell is sure to keep the casual pedestrian away. Patrocles is already there. His back is to me as he leans casually on one of the bins, eating an apple he no doubt nicked from the kitchens.

"If this were the Games, you'd be dead." I whisper in his ear.

He jumps about a foot. "Snow, Baria. Announce yourself, would you?"

I shrug. "You should have heard me. I wasn't even trying."

He scowls, prickling at his wounded pride as only a fifteen year old can. He opens his mouth to say something but I cut him off.

"Maura and Declan?"

Pat shrugs. "Declan went back to wait for her. She hasn't made it out yet, and she's usually the first one here."

I frown, but just lean against the heaping rubbish bin, trying to ignore the smell. Maura's escape is always a little more complicated than mine, the seventeens share a lavatory with the sixteens and there's always a bit more traffic. But she usually makes it with time to spare. If she picked tonight to get caught….

After ten minutes I hear two pair of footsteps coming down the path and relax. Maura and Declan appear moments later. She's grinning, he looks resigned to the worst.

"Sorry," Maura whispers. "Dido was prowling the hall on the way to the kitchens. She nearly caught me. Had to hide in a utility closet until she came back the other way."

Declan's frown deepens. "I just want to state for the record that I am against this."

Maura shoves him. "I swear, Dec, you're bad as Baria."

I sniff. "I like to think that he's almost as good as me."

We laugh. I cuff Declan on the shoulder and push him towards the lights of town, giving him a slap on the ass for good measure. Patrocles and Maura follow, Pat trying to snag an arm around her waist. Maura removes it gingerly.

"Not until your balls drop, little boy," she says.

Pat waggles his eyebrows. "I can give you names of several female witnesses who can confirm the elevation of my balls."

"Way too much information!" I call over my shoulder and the rest of the walk into town descends into our usual display of good-natured ribbing.

Administrative Center is one of the smallest towns in District 2, but since it caters to the Institute as well as Capitol visitors and officials, it's also one of the wealthiest. Hence its nickname. 'The Little Capitol.' The Three Cousins on the main road is its largest pub and inn. Named after three of the district's earliest Hunger Games Victors, it's brightly lit and always busy with a varied clientele from visiting Capitolians to quarrymen. Tonight it's about half full. Old Archimedes the bartender gives us a wink as we walk in.

"Well if it isn't the Fearsome Foursome making another daring escape. No broken furniture tonight, please."

"Cheers Archie. You act as if we don't pay for it," I say.

He gives a long suffering sigh and points us to our usual table near the door. A server brings over four beers and four shots of imported District 9 whiskey. Declan tells Archie to put it all on his tab.

"To Ahenobarbus Romero," says Declan as he raises his shot. "We will never see his like again, thank Snow."

"Cheers!" we all laugh and down the shot. Pat chokes as the fiery liquid scorches his throat. Declan claps him on the back and tells him to stop being such a woman, earning him a cuff across the head from Maura. I laugh and give him a kick under the chair for good measure, even though I'm glad he's finally loosened up. Indeed, within ten minutes Declan is the life of the group, flirting with the pretty server and ordering another round of shots for us all.

"Ugh, someone turn this shit off," says Maura as she glares at the television over the bar. She takes a swallow of beer. "I swear, if I have to see her simpering face one more time I'll vomit. Or knife someone."

I glance at the screen. Caesar Flickerman gives his manic smile as he interviews Crystal Flute, the Victor of last year's Games. The young woman from District 1 gives a chirping little laugh and tosses her carefully styled hair. It's a far cry from how she looked at the end of her Games, covered in filth and the blood of her former allies.

"Well, I like her," says Pat, a gleam in his eye.

Maura snorts. "You like anything with the right parts, Pat. But damn, if I have to hear one more thing about what sort of exfoliating cream she uses….I hope the next one's ugly. Unless she looks like you, Baria. I'd love to see what they'd do with your skin tone."

I laugh. Maura tries hard to hide how much of a fashion and beauty junkie she is, and usually fails. "They'd probably dress me like a rock like they did a few years ago. Lots of grey powder and a fatsuit."

"That would be a crime, with your coloring," says Maura as the boys roll their eyes simultaneously.

I laugh again, trying to hide the twinge of discomfort I feel at the talk of my color. I do stand out in District 2. I have the district's strong features and tall stature from my father as well as the thick black hair I keep pulled back in many tiny braids. But my mother's people came from both Districts 1 and 11. Hence my cocoa skin, not as dark as the Elevens but enough to stand out. From District 1 I have the deep green eyes so common to their district and so rare elsewhere. I don't really give a damn about my appearance, but I love my district and my home, and any reminder that there were traitors in my family line is best left, in my opinion, firmly in the past.

In any case, all of Maura's chatter is irrelevant. I have no intention of going to the Hunger Games.

"Doesn't matter," says Pat, loudly breaking me out of my thoughts. "This year is our man Declan's." He raises his glass. "To Declan, Victor of the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games."

Maura kicks him under the table. "Shut up, fool. You'll jinx it!"

"I wasn't jinxing him! I was showing confidence in the man!"

"Enough, Pat," I say. He takes the hint, but the damage is done. Declan is staring down into the dregs of his beer, his expression closed off.

I squeeze his arm. "There's still a month, Dec," I say. "Don't think about it now."

He gives me a pained smile, but fingers the gold tag around his neck. All the cadets wear a tag of some sort of metal with our names and cadet number stamped on. Iron when you first enter the Institute. Bronze when you reach fourteen and start specialized training. If you graduate with a bronze tag at eighteen, you're sent to the rank and file of the Peacekeepers. Maura and Pat both wear bronze. For those cadets who show suitable skill and potential, silver tags are given. Silver Tags are awarded special posts in the Capitol or as officers in the more remote districts. A bit more privilege, a bit more prestige. My tag is silver. I would have had to sleep through every test to get anything lower, as the trainers have constantly told me. They also constantly remind me that I could have easily been a Gold Tag if I applied myself. It doesn't impress me. I'll do good work, but I'm not going to kiss up the ass of any passing Victor in the hopes of getting a slightly shinier tag.

Declan, however. His gold tag is something he's worked for since we became friends. There are twenty-four of them every senior class. Each one sponsored by a Victor. Declan's sponsor is an older Victor named Ares. In one month, he and the other twenty-three Gold Tags will undergo the three Trials. Those who fail will graduate with the highest honors and most prestigious posts. The two who succeed will be given a platinum tag that they'll wear as a token when they volunteer for the Games.

That's what Declan wants. The chance to enter a competition where he has a one in twenty-four chance of surviving. For a moment, I see him lying on a beach with a spear stuck in his chest, or being incinerated by a volcano, or his throat cut when he's asleep. Then I shake it off. It's not going to happen. Declan is good, but there are a couple in our year who are much, much better. But I'm hardly going to mention that, since we are here to help him relax after all.

"Another round everyone?" I ask. No one is paying attention. Pat is laughing uproariously at something the server said that wasn't meant to be funny, Maura is still glowering at the television screen and twisting her own dark hair in one finger, and Declan is lost in his worries. I shrug and go up to the bar to have a quick chat with Archie.

The door opens as I'm ordering four more pints. The noise level in the Three Cousins drops considerably. Three men walk into the pub together. They're big, smell of old sweat, and clearly from the quarries. Their coats have a patch with some sort of red leaf. They're also already drunk, by the way they're weaving their way up to the bar.

"Something I can help you lads with?" asks Archie in a distinctly cool, formal voice.

"Somma that District Four tequila if you got it, old timer," says the largest of the men.

Archie slams three shot glasses down and fills them from a dusty bottle. "Not too often we have folks from Redfern up this way."

Redfern. The name sounds alarm bells in my half-inebriated brain. It's a village on the outskirts of the district. Cuts marble for the Capitol. Supposedly it was the only village to go over to the rebels entirely during the Dark Days and ever since it's been a hotbed for sedition. Not that I'm supposed to know anything about that, of course.

The man shrugs. "Got a load of the good stuff we're shipping out. For President Snow's own mansion." He raises his shot glass. "May we always….serve him well." The way he says it sounds like a threat. The chuckling of his buddies doesn't help.

His eyes light on me. "Well, well. We got a little girl down from Murder High? What's a pretty girl like you doing wearing the red, sweetie?"

I smile. Maura says that when I smile I look like a mountain cat ready to pounce. "Girl can't have a drink in peace?"

"Oh, I'll leave you in peace if you want, beautiful, but I think I can convince you otherwise."

I smirk. "You couldn't handle me, quarry rat."

"Well, never say nev-"

"Baria?" Declan is up and shoving his way to the bar. Behind him, Maura and Pat are giving us apprehensive looks. "He giving you trouble?"

"He was just going on his way," I say. The man hoots.

"Well if it isn't a bunch of baby murderers in training. And a Gold Tag to boot. You all excited to kill some babies, _boy?"_

Declan stiffens. "I will serve my district and my country in whatever way demanded, _sir."_

The man snorts. "Murder High took your brain, did it boy? That shit get your girlfriend get all excited?"

"Come on, Dec," I say. "I've got the drinks."

Another one of the man laughs. "You cut his meat for him too, girl?"

The first man smirks. "Bet he lets her ride on top too."

"Well, you're not about to find out anytime soon how I ride," I say and walk past him.

One of the men leans forward as we pass. "If they pick you, I hope you die," he whispers in Declan's ear.

My friend freezes. For a moment I think he's going to faint, or throw a punch. Then he bends over and vomits several pints and dinner onto the shiny wood floor.

The men laugh uproariously for about three seconds as I set the glasses down, pick up a chair, and smash it over the biggest man's head. He goes down hard.

The other two give shouts of rage and move in but they don't get two steps until Pat and Maura are on them. Pat is whooping with joy at his first bar fight, Maura is smiling grimly. She delivers a one-two punch to the smallest man then shoves the other one towards me so I can take him down with a kick.

Something smashes into my ear and I go flying into a table. My big friend is back up. I'm vaguely aware of the rest of the pub cheering us on and Archie yelling something into his ancient phone as I take a fighting stance. My opponent is big and his fists are like massive hams, but I'm faster and I know where to hit. I maneuver around, letting him back me towards a corner and get a few hits in. I smile as Declan grabs one of his wrists mid-punch and wraps it around his back, leaving me free to bash in his ugly face.

I only get a few good shots in when one of the other quarrymen grabs me around the waist and throws me into the bar. I yelp in pain as at least one rib cracks. Then I'm up, and my fingers are around his throat and I'm pressing him down to the floor when the door flies open and the Peacekeepers swarm in.

It's all over in moments. All seven of us are restrained and cuffed. I'm thrown down to the floor, held in a firm grip by two larger men. I know better than to resist. Maura is next to me. Her eye is swelling up and her lip is bleeding but she still manages to wink.

The door opens one more time. A pair of high heeled boots step into the pub. Black leather, very expensive and fashionable. They walk slowly towards us, ringing out a slow cadence against the floor.

The men holding me down loosen their grip slightly as they salute and I manage to crane my neck up to see her face.

Aw, shit.

"Well, well, well." Dido Castremi, Victor of the Thirty-Ninth Hunger Games, looks down in amusement. "I think we may have gotten ourselves into a bit of trouble with the Headmistress."


	2. Chapter 2

I can hear swords clashing together somewhere down the hall. The thirteens, bashing at each other with blunted weapons. The sounds mimic the irregular beating of my heart as I sit on a marble bench outside the main office of the Institute, waiting my turn to face the Headmistress.

Tigellinus is standing opposite me. His twisted lip is even more pronounced with the contempt he doesn't bother to hide from his face. He was shaking with fury from the moment he came up to the mountain fortress to collect us in the early hours of the morning. I could tell that he wanted to grill us over the coals right then and there, but he kept his mouth shut and escorted us back to the Institute in merciful silence. He hasn't let us out of his sight though. Maybe thinks we'll make a break for it. I can't say the thought isn't tempting.

Dido is still here too. She's sitting on another bench, painting her nails. Tigellinus has told her twice in a very pointed tone that there's no reason for her to remain and he's sure she has other pressing matters to attend. Both times she just smiled and said she didn't want to miss any of the fireworks. She's always been a bit odd, even for a Victor.

The door opens for the third time this morning. The first time, Pat walked out. He looked shaken to the bone. Maura was next. Her eye was swollen shut by then and she gave me a wry, almost pitying look. Now Declan walks out. He's pale as a sheet; even his lips have no color. He doesn't look at me.

"Dec," I say, but Tigellinus grunts at me to be quiet. Dec walks off, then breaks into a run when he thinks we can't hear.

The door to the office is still open. "Send her in," comes a voice from inside.

I stand. My ribs have been treated, but they still burn, and I feel the ache of every punch from last night. But I'm not going to slink in like a broken dog, so I take a deep breath, lift my chin, and walk into the Headmistress's office.

"Close the door and take a seat," she says.

I do as I'm told. The seat is behind a massive desk of red oak imported from District 7 and hand carved with scenes from the Headmistress's own Games. I stare at an image of her likeness driving a spear through another tribute's heart before I gather the courage to look at the real thing.

Boudicca is standing by her window, flipping through a folio of papers. Her silvery hair pours over her shoulders and there are deep lines in her forehead and the corners of her mouth, but she's still beautiful in a regal way at just over sixty. Boudicca defines this place, the Institute and the district itself. The story of how she pulled herself from a life of slavery to the Victor of one of the early Games is legendary. She founded the Institute to train the next generation of Peacekeepers, soldiers, and Victors. She's a terrifying figure, and while she's rumored to have a soft side when it comes to her tributes, the glance she gives me now is utterly without mercy.

Oh Snow, I am in so much trouble.

"Enobaria Malachite," says the Headmistress as she reads from my file. "Age eighteen. Silver Tag. Arrived at the Institute at the age of nine. Orphaned by the Great Rift Landslide that wiped out most of your village. Lost a mother, father, and two brothers in the disaster. Refused to speak until a year after you arrived under the constant pestering by cadet Mauretania Casswell."

Her eyes flicker to me. I don't react. I knew all of this and more would be in my file. She continues.

"Excellent scores in combat and weapons proficiency. Specialization, sword, but also competent with ranged weapons and top of the class in hand-to-hand. As for academic classes, you range from average in mathematics to high praise from your national history teacher."

She turns yet another page. "Comments from teachers and trainers. 'Hard worker when she sets goals.' 'Natural leadership abilities.' 'Looked up to by younger cadets.' 'Excels in team challenges, inspires teamwork amongst peers, makes friends easily.' On the other hand. 'Not ambitious.' 'Prone to laziness.' 'Willful.' 'Temperamental.' 'Holds grudges.'"

I try not to grimace. It doesn't surprise me that my trainers would put any of that in my file. They've all said it to my face plenty of times. But coming from the Headmistress, it sounds ten times worse.

She tosses the file onto the desk and sits opposite me. "Explain yourself," she says.

"Well, um," I stammer. "I…uh…snuck out last night. Through, um…"

"Through the window of the senior girls lavatory, yes." She raises an eyebrow. "You really thought you were the first? You give yourself too much credit. Begin with what happened to set off your little tussle."

I haltingly, and with much mumbling, tell the story of how the Redfern men taunted us, set Declan off, and how I attacked the largest offender. I'm sure Boudicca heard all this from the others as well as Dido, but she listens impassively until I reach being cuffed up by Peacekeepers.

Boudicca picks up a pen and scribbles in my file. "Loyal to a fault."

Despite myself, I feel my ears go red. Boudicca regards me coolly.

"It wasn't a compliment, Enobaria Malachite. I don't doubt that you weren't looking for a fight, but you hardly showed restraint in launching yourself into one as soon as your friend's pride was wounded. And your own friends had enough loyalty towards you to jump in immediately." She presses her fingertips against the table. "What are the words of the Institute?"

"Honor, Strength, Justice." I say without hesitation.

"I came close to adding 'Loyalty' to that mantra. Very close. But I did not. Why?"

This is what the Headmistress calls a 'teachable moment.' There is only one proper response. "I don't know, Headmistress."

"Because loyalty is not a virtue. It's merely a trait. Being loyal to something or someone matters very little when the object of that loyalty is flawed. Or undeserving. Or traitorous."

My eyes flicker up but she's looking at my file again. "Your penchant for sneaking out of the Institute would be enough to get you locked in the brig for a week. But starting unsanctioned brawls with civvies? Intolerable. That sort of barbarism belongs in the lower districts. Violence is a tool we use here, Enobaria Malachite, like fire, and just like fire it can easily get out of control and burn all it touches."

She stands. "And your petty aggressions and wounded pride is no excuse for your behavior last night."

"But he-" I burst out. She raises an eyebrow and it's terrifying but I have to speak. "They deserved it! They weren't just insults, they were…seditious!"

Boudicca grunts. "And you acted out of a sense of district pride and duty rather than in defense of your friend Declan, did you?"

My jaw tightens. "I don't see why they have to be mutually exclusive."

This startles a chuckle from her. "Indeed," she says. "Well, in light of your desire to better your district. I think I may have the appropriate penalty."

I curse myself and hold my tongue. I do not like the gleam in the Headmistress's eyes.

"You and your companions will receive a six-week suspension from the Institute. During this period you will be assigned to the Peacekeeping force out in the remoter villages on the western borders. They've been experiencing…trouble as of late. Missing livestock, pilfered stores. A young girl who disappeared from her bed in the middle of the night. It could be a series of rather unfortunate circumstances, it could be something else entirely. That's for the Peacekeepers to determine. You four will be under their thumb during that time. Washing uniforms. Polishing boots. Running errands. You seem so eager to help your district, Enobaria Malachite, that I'll provide you the opportunity to prove it. And if any trouble arises, well, it should be a good outlet for that aggressive streak."

I can feel the blood drain from my face. "But…but Headmistress."

"My decision is final."

I swallow. "But…you can't. Please."

Her eyes narrow. "Be very careful about what you say next, Enobaria Malachite. I don't usually take kindly to people who tell me what I can and cannot do."

I steel myself and try to put on my most non-aggressive tone. "Headmistress. Declan has worked for years to earn his gold tag. The Trials are in a month. It would devastate him to lose everything he's worked for. I know him very well, and I know he'd never recover. He tried to stop us from going out, he did. Please, send the rest of us wherever you please. But reconsider for him."

Boudicca raises her eyebrow one more time. "I would have thought that someone who appreciated the privilege of the gold tag to not risk it on a pint of beer and a foolish brawl. And yet you challenge my express orders for his sake. I don't believe he really deserves your loyalty."

I don't reply. The Headmistress scoops my files back into the folio and replaces it in one of the cabinets behind us.

"I will be receiving regular reports from your commanding officer from the western borders. If they prove to be above satisfactory, if each one of you demonstrates that the words of the Institute are something you can live, not just recite, I may – _may – _consider an early recall."

I nod. "Yes, Headmistress."

"You're dismissed. I do hope the next time we meet it will be in better circumstances, Enobaria Malachite. Your trainers are correct. You have far more potential than…"she waves her hand at me. "This."

I nod again and stand up. The Headmistress is looking out the window again. I walk as fast as possible to the door, throw it open, and take deep gulps of air once I'm outside.

"You're alive," says Dido. "I'm disappointed. We were all taking bets. Now I owe Barty ten shots."

Tigellinus doesn't roll his eyes, but it's definitely a close thing. "Pack your bags, Malachite," he says. "You're going on a field trip."

* * *

"I'd just like to say," says Maura as she pulls a bit of peeling skin off her arm, "That this really sucks."

No one answers. She's right, but we've all adamantly vocalized our displeasure over the past month to each other and yet here we remain.

Pat sits on a boulder, pulls off his boot, and dumps out small shower of gravel. "I can't believe I'm starting to miss protein shakes."

Maura grimaces. "I miss sleeping on a mattress. At least the dorms don't smell of goats."

"Central air conditioning," I whisper softly and Maura moans.

"Oh Snow, please don't, I have sunburns where burns should never be."

"Shut up," growls Declan. "You'll scare the little bleeder off even more."

We fall silent, both at his words and the ugly look on his face. He's been wearing it for four weeks. No one can blame him much for his foul mood. If it weren't for us, he'd be preparing for the Trials right now, meditating in the garden or sparring with the trainers. Instead he's stuck out here in the armpit of Panem, combing this tiny valley for an old woman's lost goat.

The western villages of District 2 are all clustered around their own quarry or mine. There's virtually no difference between any of them and even their names have poured out of my mind like water in a sieve. The four of us were deployed out here by train from the mountain fortress a month ago and ever since then we've been under the command of Captain Clay of the Peacekeepers. Clay is a rather unfortunate man. He has an unfortunate lack of a chin, an unfortunately desolate post with the Peacekeepers, and unfortunately lacks a sense of humor.

When we arrived, he looked down at us over his overlong nose and muttered something under his breath about babysitting, then set us to work scrubbing pots in the mess hall. Thus began a month of scut work for the dregs of the Peacekeeping force. Personally, I think the worst part was supervising the local primary school's seasonal play, especially since we were ordered to join in the chorus numbers. Although Maura claims she'll never get the smell of shit out of her hair from three days of emptying the tubs from the latrine.

The latest village we're staying at has been marginally better. The Peacekeepers here are mostly over forty and laid back. Clay has mostly given us up into their tender care, and they're a bit more sympathetic. The village itself, Riverbend – Waterbend? Water's Edge? I don't know – holds about three hundred people. A cluster of shops around the square. Central pillar inscribed with the Treaty of Treason. The permanent viewing screen for watching the Games and other mandatory programs. Same as every single dump we've been dragged to on this little vacation. And hopefully the last.

If we could just find this damn goat.

We spread out and continue walking along the deep ravine. We've covered a good amount of ground to the south of the village, but still no sign of the goat that disappeared without a trace last night. Pat climbs up to the edge of the ravine and scampers about like a goat himself, keeping an eye out for anything that moves. I do the same below him, trying to keep beneath the shade. The late spring sun can be brutal, as Maura and Declan learned in their first few days as they roasted to the color of a tomato.

"Maybe the others found it already," mutters Maura. "I wouldn't put it past Clay. I bet they found the stupid animal hours ago and they're all having a good laugh keeping us out on a wild groosling chase. I say we just find a shady place and nap."

"Will you _shut up_?" growls Declan. "If someone hears you, they'll report us back for insubordination."

Maura's jaw goes tight. "It was just a joke, Dec," she mutters. Declan speeds up. I squeeze Maura's arm before going after him.

"Go easy on her, Dec," I say. "It's not her fault we're all stuck out here. It's mine. You know that."

"Yeah, I do," he growls. He gives me a look that's supposed to be accusing, but there's no effort in it.

I cuff him. "Water break. We're all getting a little on edge, and we have to head back soon anyway."

"No, I think we should keep going for a little-"

"Pat! Maura!" I call. "We're taking a break!"

Declan mutters something under his breath but follows me to an outcropping that provides a small amount of shade. I take a deep drink of water from my canteen and pour some more over my head. Declan does the same, stripping off his shirt to wipe his face and neck as Maura and Pat join us.

"Catch, stud," says Maura as she tosses something in bright wrapping to Declan. He catches the peppermint candy and looks at it in disbelief.

"Where did you get this?"

"Nicked it from Clay's office when he ran to the pisser. He's got a whole bunch in a drawer. Not going to miss one, is he?"

Declan frowns at her. Or tries, one corner of his mouth is twitching. "You know stealing food is illegal, right? Considering that's how you ended up at the Institute in the first place."

Maura shrugs. "Think if they'll catch me they'll send us back to the Institute as punishment? Worth a try, right?"

It's too much. I start giggling, and then Pat laughs outright. Declan manages to stay serious for about two more seconds before he joins in, and he laughs louder and longer than any of us.

He finally quiet down and fingers his gold tag. "I'm sorry for snapping at you, Maura. Besides, it doesn't matter anymore."

"Don't say that Dec," I say simultaneously with Maura.

He shrugs. "The Trials are in three days. If the Headmistress was going to call us back, she would have done so by now. I'm sure they found someone else to give the tag to, no problem." His voice cracks. "I…I think I'll make a good Peacekeeper. Maybe I'll get to see the Capitol. Or District Four. I think I'd like that. The beach."

"You'll always be a Gold Tag to us, Dec," I say, and I rest my head on his shoulder. Maura takes the other. Pat links his arm around our friend's. We stay like that until a voice breaks us out of our comfort.

"Isn't there a goat you're supposed to be looking for, aye?"

An old man is walking through the ravine towards us. He's at least sixty and his Peacekeeper uniform is stretched over his wide belly. He still keeps his hair colored purple, a sign of his Capitol origins.

"Just taking a breather, Sergeant Omnius," I say as we collect our canteens and stand.

He grunts. "Looked like quite the cozy breather." He waves his hand as two more Peacekeepers, almost as old as he by the looks of it, come up in the opposite direction. "Ah well, no matter. You covered quite a bit of ground as it is. Anyway, time to get you lot back. Captain Clay is waiting for you."

I groan. "Please tell me it's not more latrines."

"Not your place to complain if it is, cadet, but as it happens, it's not more latrines." He suddenly breaks out into a wide smile. "Got a train waiting for you."

Declan gives him a quizzical look. "You're sending us on to another village?"

"We're sending you on, aye. Back to the Little Capitol. To the Institute." He waits for a reaction but there's only stunned silence. "Boudicca made the call herself."

Maura is the first to shriek. She throws herself at a frozen Declan, swinging him around. "We're going back! We're going back! We're going back!"

I give a whoop and Maura passes Declan off to me as Pat picks her up and spins her.

"You're going back, Dec!" I shout. "In time for the Trials! We did it! You're going to make it!"

Suddenly I'm engulfed in a bonecrushing hug. I ignore the wetness on my shoulder as Declan embraces me. Behind us all three Peacekeepers are laughing, but it's not nasty. Our joy is contagious.

"Well, the train isn't going to wait forever, so if we're all done with the jubilations, we should get a move on," says Omnius. He's still grinning. "But keep your eye out for that damned goat all the same. Boy, get back up on the ledge there and keep an eye out. But don't fall and break your neck, it's a lot of paperwork for me if you do."

Pat clambers up to the top of the ravine once again and walks twenty feet above us. Omnius leads the way and his fellow Peacekeepers take the rear as we head back towards the village.

"Protein shakes," Maura whispers as she links her arm in mine.

"Central air conditioning," I say back with a giggle.

"We all know that Maura just wants to shampoo her hair with something you could smell from District Nine," says Declan and we burst out laughing as Maura glares at us.

"Keep it down, you lot," Omnius says. "We don't need to attract the attention of any-"

"Sergeant, I saw something!" calls down Pat.

Omnius glances up at him. "The goat?" he asks.

"Could be. It was small and hairy." Pat points. It darted back right over the-"

The hissing of air is the first sign that something is very wrong. Then Pat's eyes. They widen for the briefest of seconds. He moves his head, tries to duck in time, but he's not quick enough. The stone is the size of a groosling egg and it skims across his temple as it flies through the air. I see the blood as he falls, a curtain that drenches the side of his face. His eyes roll up as he tumbles down the side of the ravine.

"_PATROCLES!" _I scream as I race towards him, even though I know that it's too far, that I'll never reach him in time. He lands hard, his leg twisted beneath him, and from here I can see that it's broken in at least one, maybe two places.

"Don't move Pat!" I shout, but even as I reach his side I hear another hiss and I turn my run into a roll. An arrow clatters against the ravine wall as I roll to my feet.

"We're under attack!" I scream at Omnius, who's gaping at us with wide eyes.

"Take cover!" he shouts to the rest of us. It's the last thing he ever says; the next moment there's an arrow embedded in his throat, and he drops without even a whimper.

I dive behind a boulder as more stones and arrows hiss overhead. One arrow lands near me. It's crude and homemade, with a stone tip and groosling feathers, nothing like the sleek silver weapons we use at the Institute. My terror for Pat and the rest of my friends surges through me, bile at the back of my throat, but I temper it down as my training takes over.

I race from my boulder to a more sheltered outcrop. Only one arrow follows me, missing by several feet. Now there are whoops as…things…leap from stone to stone down into the ravine. I assess them in a matter of seconds. At least a dozen. Wearing filthy animal hides as a crude sort of armor. Long filthy hair, faces hidden by masks crudely carven to resemble animals or demons. Even cruder weapons. Clubs with stones lashed to them, stone knives, bone-tipped spears.

I pull out my primary weapon. It's a PED – personal energy dispenser, a recent District 3 invention. It emits a blast of solar energy that's barely enough to stun a goat. Only full Peacekeepers are allowed to have guns.

I don't know who these people are or why they're attacking us, but I have to get out from under this outcropping if I don't want my friends to be massacred.

Maura screams.

"Maura!" I leap out, my PED held high. I can't see my friends, but three of the rag-men catch sight of me. They move like the monkey-mutts I've seen on the Games, racing over the stones on their knuckles and feet. I take two of them down with the PED. It won't last long. The third dodges the blast and comes at me with a massive club. I duck his blows easily, but he's fast, too fast for me to get a clean shot with the PED. Until his foot slips, just barely, and he takes a moment to regain his balance. The PED comes up.

A spear comes, hissing from the top of the ravine. I step back but it strikes the PED, sending it spinning out of my hand to shatter on the rocks below. More whoops echo around me. Screams of pain and rage.

Laughing eyes gleam at me from under the rag-man's mask. I return the smile.

"Let's play for real now."

I pull two knives from my belt and leap.

He's fast, but I'm faster. His club comes down and I dodge, kicking him down when he's off balance. I stamp on his fingers and am rewarded by a howl of pain. The mask falls off. The man beneath has a ratty beard streaked with grey and eyes filled with hate.

One stroke of the across his throat ends his life. There's a shuffle behind me as another rag-man, the one who threw the spear, flees the scene. I take a deep breath and flick one of my knives through the air. He goes down with it stuck between his shoulder blades.

I just killed for the first time but there's no chance for the comprehension to sink in. I need to find my friends. Pat is still lying in a pool of his own blood. There's no sign of the others.

"Maura!" I scream. "Declan!"

"Enobaria!"

I run towards the sound. Declan is fifty yards down the ravine. Six rag-men are dancing around him. The two remaining Peacekeepers lie at their feet along with two more rag-men.

"Enobaria!"

I race towards my friend. A rag-man sees me coming and races towards me. I punch his throat when he's in range and he goes down without a sound.

"I'm coming, Declan, I'm coming!"

He dodges a spear, makes a swipe with his own knife. He looks up and sees me, his eyes showing relief…and then terror.

"Baria, behind you, behind you!"

I spin and swipe blindly, but the rag-man is ready. This one is huge, wearing a mask that only covers his eyes. His mace is spiked with what looks like mountain lion teeth.

I take my stance. He's just one man. I've been taking on bigger opponents since I was eleven.

A shadow passes over me as another rag-man leaps over my head. His huge companion grins.

Oh damn.

I feel the wooden club that smashes into my temple. I don't feel the ground that rushes up to meet me.


	3. Chapter 3

Bright sunlight. The ground…hard. Pain. In my head, hands. Legs burning.

So dizzy…

I turn my head to the side and vomit. Not much comes up. Just bile.

"What…" I mutter. My lips are so chapped that I start bleeding just by speaking that word. A trickle runs down my chin. It feels cool. "What…"

"Shhh…" someone whispers on my right. "Stay quiet. Don't call their attention."

"Maura?...Alive?..."

"Yes. For now."

I close my eyes. _Focus, Baria. Focus dammit._

I start with myself. I'm sitting down on hard ground. I'm leaning against a post. I try to lift my hands, am not surprised to feel heavy chains. No doubt I'm bound to Maura as well.

My head throbs fiercely and I try not to whimper. I'm hurt. Probably bad. I may have a concussion from the blow to my head, which is the last I remember of the ambush in the ravine. I'm pretty sure one of my ribs is broken again. As for bruises, too many to count. I'll survive, but if there's a fight coming, it's going to be a rough one.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I open my eyes, letting myself get used to the bright sunlight. First thing I notice are the mountains. I don't recognize them. Any of them.

I'm a long way from home.

I turn my head to the right. Maura is next to me, facing away, chained to the post like I am. I can tell at a glance that she's only half conscious. A filthy rag is tied around her head, crusted with dried blood. Her shirt is shredded, revealing long lacerations. Almost like…

Whip marks. She's been whipped. What in Snow's name?

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and force myself to look around, force myself to really take in my surroundings. We're in an open space that's surrounded by ramshackle huts. Most look to be wood frames with some sort of hide stretched between them. There are people too. Rag-men, I named them in the ravine. But these are mostly woman, filthy, with long matted hair. They don't look at us as they mill some sort of grain, stitch hides together, or watch the children who run here and there, naked and browned from the sun. And there are dogs. They slink between the huts, their ribs showing through their dull coats. A couple growl at me. Two snarl as they fight over a bone.

"Who are these people?" I whisper to no one in particular.

"Reavers," comes a voice from my left.

"Declan," I whisper. "Are you…alright?"

"Nothing I won't recover from, with time," he says. "But we might not have it. Not with these."

"Reavers," I say, louder this time. "How can they be Reavers? They're not…they're not supposed to be…"

"Real?" Declan gives a soft snort. "Guess they taught us otherwise."

"Please, please shut up," moans Maura. "They'll hear you. I don't want….I don't want another."

I think of the whip marks on my best friend's back, and I put the pieces together. I think of what it would take to make headstrong, sassy Maura cower at a whisper and rage surges up in me.

"Where's Pat?" I whisper to Declan.

"On the other side of me."

"Is he…."

"He's alive. Barely. They put a splint on his leg, but they carried him here along with you. They don't want us dead. Not yet at least."

I nod, even though I know he can't see it. "Don't forget anything you see," I whisper. "Keep an eye out for anything we can use to escape."

"They'll come for us," whispers Maura. "They'll come for us. The Institute. They have to."

"Of course they will," I say in what I hope is a soothing voice. "Don't talk anymore, Maura. Don't talk. Rest."

I feel her head nod down, whether in weariness or hopelessness I don't know. The fact is, Maura is right. Three dead Peacekeepers within the District borders, and four vanished cadets from the Institute? Someone will be searching. They have to. I think of Captain Clay's face with a sudden surge of affection, hoping against hope that he'll burst out from behind a boulder, guns blazing. Then reality hits like a brick dropped onto my stomach. _How will they find us?_ The wilderness is a big, big place.

The sun moves across the sky. At one point I hear Pat moaning for water. I try to make eye contact with one of the women, but they all avoid my gaze. I beg for a drink from a passing boy who can't be more than thirteen, but he gives me a harsh kick and a harsher laugh before running off.

The evening star is glistening in the sky near the horizon when the men return to the camp. They ignore us as they hoot and holler and pick up women to carry into the huts. Some don't even get that far. I guess privacy is a foreign concept in such a small tribe. Some of them are carrying strings of grooslings and hares. These walk past and I can't see where they go. I'm trying to count them, trying to get a number of able-bodied fighters we may have to contend with, when a pair of legs stops in front of me.

"So, the pretty little flower finally woke up. Took her long enough."

I crane my neck up, but his upper face is hidden by another one of those wooden masks.

"Who are you?" I ask. "What do you want with us? Who _are _you?"

He squats down so his mask is at eye level. A hand comes out, curls around one of my many braids. "You can call me 'Daddy' if you ask nicely," he says with lecherous grin.

I try to spit but I can't even summon a drop. It's the thought that counts though. "I'd sooner have one of your dogs."

"That could be arranged," he says. He reaches up and pulls of his mask. He's still fairly young, with a boyish face. A strong jaw. Black hair, dark eyes. He'd be handsome I suppose if it weren't for the long scar that runs down from his left temple across his nose to the right jaw.

"Someone took exception to your face?" I ask before I can stop myself.

He laughs. "Someone was once not kind to me. I was even less kind to her." His dirty finger strokes the side of my face. "You can call me the Speaker. Be kind to me, and I in turn will be kind to you."

To my right I hear Maura mutter an inventive place he can stick his kindness. The Speaker laughs.

"You'd better learn to control that tongue. Otho the Unspoken doesn't like mouthy little girls." He gives a nod to somewhere behind me. "Bring them before him."

Rough hands unchain me and drag me to my feet. I can hear them doing the same to Declan and Maura, who has to stifle a cry of pain. My legs feel like pins and needles and my head swims, but I push the rush of dizziness down. I need my mind clear.

We're lead away from the post (except for Pat, who's dragged on a crude stretcher by two boys) into a great semi-permanent longhouse made of woven rushes and wooden supports. It's large enough to hold nearly a hundred Reaver warriors, mostly men but a few women as well scattered here and there. There are more dogs here as well One is roasting over a cooking fire, perfuming the air with the scent of meat. Skulls are hanging from the ceiling, some of animals, other not. On a great wooden throne at the end is the man I take to be Otho the Unspoken. He's massively fat but there are lines of hard muscle under the lard. He's old and grizzled, with beady grey eyes that watch us approach. Two young women are feeding him bits of meat and fanning him with fern fronds. At his feet an enormous dog-wolf hybrid is gnawing on a massive bone. It snaps at us as we approach. The Speaker takes a place at the side of the throne, The Reavers shout and hiss and spit at us as we're dragged up to center of the longhall.

"Kneel for Otho the Unspoken, Chief of the Roaring Men, Uniter of Tribes, Ender of a Hundred Lives, the Hound of the Damned.

Hands shove us to the ground until we're lying prostrate. One of them gives Pat a kick, earning a sharp cry of pain.

Otho the Unspoken turns his head and gives a series of grunts to the Speaker, who smirks and nods.

"Not worth crowsfood, that one. I agree, my lord, but you did command us to take anyone in a red tunic alive."

I raise my head from the ground, spitting out a wad of blood from where I bit my tongue. "Can't your big chief speak for himself, Speaker?"

The Speaker gives me an aloof look. "He would, had your Capitol not torn out his tongue years ago."

Beside me, Maura gives a gasp. "An Avox?"

There is an outbreak of more shouts and hisses at her words. A big man, nearly naked but for his breechclout, steps forward and gives Maura a lash across her legs with his whip. Her discipline holds and she manages not to scream, but it's a close thing. I manage to give her hand a squeeze.

"Now, now, we don't use the 'A' word in polite company," says the Speaker in a droll tone. "Not when so many of us are scooped up by the Capitol and turned into their mute slaves."

Declan shifts behind me. "That's a lie. Avoxes are condemned traitors."

"And that's what we all are boy, for daring to live in freedom outside their system. The demand for slaves in the Capitol is greater than their internal supply of traitors. So they hunt us down, murder us, raid us, enslave us." The Speaker gives a sweep with his arm. "What you see here are all that's left of the once great Reavers. Most of us born into this life, but a few who fled from the districts, and even one or two from the Capitol, like Chief Otho."

My head spins, not just from the concussion, but from everything I believed about Panem being the last stronghold of humanity crashing down. Although the Reavers are small in number, no more than four hundred in total from my guess. "And what do you want with us?" I ask. "Otho said he wanted us alive."

The Speaker smiles. "Ah yes, the bold one. The men who brought you said you were deadly in the ravine. They call you 'ragah.' It means 'she-demon." He steps towards me. "We brought you here to help us. To aid us in our fight against our oppressors."

Declan, Maura, and I all give a bark of laughter. "Go to hell," I spit. "You must not know much about Twos."

"We know enough. Enough to break them."

"No chance," says Declan. "We all know none of us are leaving this pathetic shithole alive. You might as well kill us now and save yourselves the trouble."

The moment he speaks I start assessing our options. I could disarm one, maybe two. Enough to get a club or spear to Declan, who's the best fighter. And then it's just us verses a hundred Reavers. Four in a hundred. Decent odds. Not much worse than the Games. Except Pat…

The Speaker's next words startle all such tactics from my brain. "Actually sending you back alive is exactly what we do want."

Silence meets this declaration, forcing him to go on.

"We know about the districts, where they are, what resources they have, from what few we've managed to free from their boundaries. But we haven't had anyone from Two in…well, a long time. You are going to tell us everything you know about District Two. And then you're going to return, miraculously rescued, and you're going to find out more, and you're going to stay there until we need you."

I spit a bit more blood. "Not a chance in hell, Reaver."

He smiles. It's an innocent, attractive smile, which makes it all the more perverse. "Pain is a powerful motivator, girl. It breaks, makes, shapes, forms anew. You've watched enough of the Games to know that. We watch them too, when we get a strong enough signal. We've learned." He nods to a young warrior. "Start with the youngest one."

We're dragged to our feet and pulled aside. Two more men hold down Pat against his stretcher, one who holds his arm out palm out. The young Reaver pulls out a bone knife, long and wickedly sharp. He presses the point down, digging deeper and deeper as the blood rushes out.

Otho the Unspoken grunts. "Yes, Chief. Let's start with something easy," says the Speaker. "How many cadets are there currently enrolled in the Institute? And be warned, several of us can read liar's signs. We'll know if you speak anything but the truth."

Patrocles does his best to remain silent, but he's soon screaming as the knife digs through skin and muscle. "Go to hell! Go to hell go to hell go to hell!"

"Come now. It's a very simple question. How many cadets are there currently enrolled in the Institute?" He eyes us. "Any one of you can relieve his suffering. Just answer the question."

"Don't you fuckers even think about it," hisses Pat as he bites his lip and spits out blood.

Maura has taken one of my hands. I don't need to look at her to know she's keeping the tears in. Declan takes my other hand. We stay silent. Together, strong, and silent.

The Speaker repeats the question several more times before the knife goes all the way through Pat's hand. "Enough, he finally says.

Pat cradles his maimed hand and gives us a wry grin. "Pathetic," he whispers. "Tigellinus's morning workouts are more painful."

We roar with laughter. It's all we can do. Our only defiance.

The Speaker gives us a sour look. "You think you've won some small victory? You're not Victors yet. Far from it." He nods to the men holding us. "Take them to the Cage. Let's start this party for real."

The Cage turns out to be exactly what it sounds like. A wooden cage behind the longhouse big enough to hold several dozen people in a pinch. It's empty now, until we three are shoved in, with Pat dragged in behind us. The Reavers crowd around us, screaming profanities and throwing clumps of dirt. Even the children eye us with eager, vicious eyes.

They carry Otho's throne to the side opposite the gate. Once Otho is settled with his girls and his massive wolf-dog, the Speaker takes his place outside the gate.

"You should all be used to this sort of thing, after watching the Games every year." He gives a command and two men enter the Cage. They place a length of plywood on top of Patrocles. Then, stones the size of a man's head. In a minute, Pat is screaming from the crushing weight.

"Stop it!" Maura screams. "Stop it, you'll kill him!"

"That's the idea," says the Speaker.

"You said you needed us!"

"Technically I only need one. This is to decide which one."

I can't help but think that this sick display was the plan all along. Certainly the Reavers seem to be enjoying it. Then the Speaker steps forward and tosses something into the Cage. A knife. It's sharp and silver, and even from here I know exactly where it came from. The Institute.

"Where did you-"

"Not your problem right now, girl," says the Speaker. "Here's the game. No one leaves this cage until one of you is dead. We'll keep adding stones until your friend is crushed to death beneath the weight. Or, you can end his misery yourselves. Or kill another one of your number. At any rate, four go in, three come out."

More stones are added. Pat is giving one long keening wail.

The Speaker was right. I had no idea what pain was until now.

Maura tries to get to Pat but the Reavers throw her back. "Pat, Pat, Patrocles, hang on. Hang on, we'll get you out."

I stand frozen. I should know what to do. I should know what to do. But I can't. I won't.

Something cool is pressed into my hand. I look down and see the knife. Declan is holding my shoulder.

"Baria," he whispers. "Do it."

"No, I can't. I won't kill…Pat."

"Not Pat. Me."

I spin and face him. "What? Dec, no. No! _NO!_"

Declan's eyes are bright, his hand steady. "Save the others. Protect them. Do it, Baria."

"Declan, I won't kill you."

Two more stones are added. I try to block out the screams and the sound of Maura's sobbing.

"He's just a boy, Baria. He's a boy. He should go home."

"Your kill children in the arenas every year," says the Speaker. "How is this different?"

"Because this is my choice," whispers Declan. He goes down on his knees in front of me. "Do it."

Two more men enter the Cage. The boulder they hold probably weighs more than I do. It will kill Pat in seconds.

"Declan."

"Do it!"

Declan I-"

"Enobaria, _DO IT! DO IT NOW!"_

"_NOOOOOO!" _I scream even as the knife comes down.

For one eternal second Declan looks up at me in thanks and pain and then he dies as he topples over and his blood stains the hard-packed sand of the Cage.

"No, no, please no," I moan as I cling to the body of my friend. Maura is screaming, the crowd is howling, and I'm yelling at them to get him out, get Pat out, they promised, they promised. I realize that I'm still holding the bloody knife and I throw it through the air. Even through my tears I see it stick in the shoulder of one of the spectators, who falls back with a howl.

They take the stones off Pat and drag him out. They take away Declan's body too; despite my efforts to hold on to it I'm thrown back against the cage. Maura comes to me, holding me tightly as I sob into her shoulder.

"Well, that was…surprising," says the Speaker. "I had put my bets on him lasting out the others. Ah well. Time for the second round, I think."

"Fuck you all," I hiss as I grip Maura tighter. "Just kill me now. I'm done with your sick game!"

"Really? You're done playing the game? That's fresh, coming from a Two," says the Speaker with a chuckle. "Besides, did I mishear your poor friend? Declan, was it? 'Save the others. Protect them.' We wouldn't want to ignore his dying wish, would we Enobaria?"

I get to my feet. The Speaker has moved around to the other side of the Cage and now he's standing in the gate. "You indescribable bastard," I say.

He laughs. "I've been called worse. Congratulations, you've earned your young friend Pat a short reprieve. Well done. But now it's time for the game to continue. And I think you'll enjoy this one."

Maura and I are hauled to our feet. A woman comes forward and chains our wrists together, then hands me a spear and Maura a club. The Speaker steps into the cage and gives a whistle. Seven dogs slink into the cage. They're clearly starved and vicious, eying us with hungry eyes.

"Same rules as before," says the Speaker. "One must die. Either one of you kills the other or we call off the dogs when one of you is dead. _Sit."_ The dogs obey.

I turn to Maura. She gives me a humorless grin beneath her red-rimmed eyes. "Only seven," she says.

"Pathetic," I agree. "Let's show these sons of whores what a Two can do."

"At your command, Chief," says the Speaker.

Behind me, Otho the Unspoken gives a grunt that even without a tongue comes out sounding a lot like '_Kill._'

The first dog goes for Maura. She lands a solid blow against its ribs, but the next one bites deep into her wrist and she drops the club with a howl.

Stay behind me," I say. "Back into the corner."

I take the offensive, thrusting my spear into the neck of one dog and the hind leg of another. I duck and thrust, finishing off another dog by gutting it through the belly. Then my shoulder is all afire as a particularly large bitch leaps up and tears her teeth into me as I'm trying to pull my spear from her fellow's corpse.

Behind me, Maura gives a scream of rage and I'm dragged along with her as she tackles the dog to the ground. Her free hand curls into a fist and she punches again and again until the snarls turn to yelps and the dog goes still. She picks up her club and looks at me.

"Let's finish this," she says.

It's short work. A skull crushed beneath the club, another spear through the heart, and the last wounded dog stalked and slaughtered between us. I smear some of the blood on my face as the Reavers boo and hiss around us. I don't care. We beat them. Maura and I. I walk up to the back of the Cage and stare down Otho the Unspeakable. He smiles, then gives another grunt.

I feel it before I see it. The chain between myself and Maura goes taut, then I feel the dead weight. There isn't a sound. She never had the chance. I turn, slowly, to where the big wolf-dog is tearing out her throat. I didn't even hear it enter the cage. I was too…too…stupid. It eyes me with unnatural amber eyes. Mutt-spawn. The whelp of a mutt and a natural animal. It has to be.

"_Back,"_ shouts the Speaker and the muttspawn wolf slinks away before I can drive my spear through it. I don't scream. I don't even whimper. I just sink down to where Maura is bleeding out onto the ground, her blood mixing with Declan's. I try to give her one last squeeze, a kiss on the forehead, one last good-bye, but she's gone, she was gone before I even turned.

The crowd of Reavers is silent now. Footsteps. I look up at the Speaker.

"Round three?" I ask in a dead voice.

"Round three, Enobaria," he says.

I'm dragged from the cage.

The stars twinkle down as I'm dumped onto the ground at the outskirts of the village. Pat is thrown down next to me. The Reavers gather to watch, naked children and filthy women and Otho and his muttspawn pet.

The Speaker casts a wide arm to the wide open wilderness beyond the huts. "Run," he says.

I don't even look up at him. "Is this some sort of trick?" I ask.

"No trick. Run for it. If we cannot find you before the sun rises, you're free."

Free to die in the wilderness. Convenient.

"But we will find you," says the Speaker. "We will find you and we will bring you back. But the first one we find, we kill. So again, the choice is yours. Try to kill one another. Run in opposite directions and hope you're faster or a better hider."

I shrug at Pat. "He can't even walk, fool."

"More luck for you then."

"Enobaria," Pat whispers. I wonder if he even knows where he is. I don't know if he knows Maura and Declan are…

I stand. Spit at the Speaker's feet. Then I scoop up Pat's ruined body and start walking into the night.

"Enobaria," he whispers a few more times.

"Shut up," I say. "We're getting out of here. We're going to make it until dawn. And if any of them find us, I'll tear their throats out if I have to."

I don't know how long we walk. An hour. Maybe two. I fall a few times. Pat cries out with pain each time, but I scoop him up and keep going. I'm exhausted, I'm hurt badly, and my heart is in pieces for Maura and Declan.

Declan, I'm so sorry.

"Just leave me," whispers Pat. I shake him.

"None of that. Now shut up. I'm getting you out of here. I made a promise."

The sky is turning the dusky grey that marks an hour before dawn when we reach the stream. I set down Pat in a clump of bushes, hoping it will at least be somewhat comfortable. We're up against the slope of one of the mountains and the stream is cool and clear. I slurp some up greedily, then bring some to Pat in cupped hands.

"Just a little rest, Pat, then we'll keep going. We're almost there. Not long now before dawn."

He drinks. Then he grips my hand.

"Enobaria. You have to leave me. Go. Please."

"Shut up," I say. "I'm not leaving you."

He gives a hoarse laugh that breaks my heart. "I'm as good as dead, Baria. You know it, I know it. Go. I'll be alright, I promise."

I pour some water from the stream over my head. "Two more minutes, then we're on our way."

"Enobaria."

"Do you think you can walk if I hold you up? We'll make better time."

"Enobaria. Promise me. Promise me you'll kill them all for this."

His voice is strange. Deeper, older, more convicted than I've ever heard it. It fills me with fear. I turn to where he's nestled in his clump of bushes. He gives me a ferocious glare.

"Kill them all, Baria."

"Pat, I'm not leaving you. Don't even- what are you doing? What is that. Pat, what is – _that's nightlock, Patrocles! Don't! Don't! Spit it out! Snow, Pat, spit it out!"_

He does spit, juice and blood and bile, but it only takes a moment. Nightlock works fast.

They find me just before the dawn breaks across the sky in pink streaks. The dogs sniff at me. I'm chained up. I don't fight it.

The Speaker gives me a brief glance. "Congratulations on your victory, Enobaria. Now the real work starts." He looks down at Pat's corpse. "Take that too. Let's not waste the meat.

Revulsion and disgust and hatred well up in me. "You…you mean you e_at-"_

The Speaker gives me a horrified look. "No! Snow, Enobaria, that's disgusting. We're not savages you know. But dogs have to eat too."

I don't remember the trip back to the camp, except that I scream the entire way.


	4. Chapter 4

"There are three Trials that every Gold Tag takes a month before the reaping to decide who receives the honor of volunteering," I say.

It hurts to talk. My mouth is still one big ache from where they pulled four of my teeth and knocked out two more. I don't dare show any sign of pain though. The Speaker is watching me closely.

"The first ordeal is the Trial of Strength. Each Gold Tag wears a tracking device and is dumped out in the wilderness around Two. The Gold Tags have two weeks to make it back to the threshold of the Institute. They are given nothing but the red uniforms on their back. Those who don't make it are picked up and disqualified."

The Speaker narrows his eyes. "And no one ever perishes on this little…camping trip?"

I nod. "There are usually one or two. They're burned in the Pit and laid to rest in the tribute vaults beneath the Institute."

"How very civilized," says the Speaker. "I'm sure it's some small comfort to them. Go on."

I bow my head. "The next ordeal is the Trial of Spirit. It's considered a taboo to talk about your individual trials at the Institute so no one is entirely sure what happens or even if it's identical for each Gold Tag. It's meant to break our spirits, that's all I know. The Institute works hard to find our insecurities and phobias and burn them out of us through training. This is a test to see if any of them are left. Usually about half of the remaining Gold Tags make it through the Trial of Spirit. I'm sorry, but that's all I know."

The Speaker nods. "And the last?"

"The Trial of Blood." I swallow. "That one's pretty straightforward. The Gold Tag is left alone in the Pit. Sometimes there are weapons, sometimes not. Someone else is led into the Pit. Someone the Gold Tag is supposed to kill. Usually a criminal of some sort. Some of them are brought in from other districts. But sometimes it's not. There are rumors in the Institute of Gold Tags having to kill old women or children. Family members of traitors. In special cases your Trial of Blood is someone you know. Those are the ones that usually break. Or refuse. If you refuse you'll never go into the Peacekeepers. Because killing the person in the Pit is a standing order. That's all I know. That's all I've heard.

"Those who make it through all three Trials are ranked and scored by the Headmistress and her staff. No one knows who the tributes will be until the Choosing Feast the night before the reaping. Boudicca announces both tributes in front of the entire Institute in the Great Hall."

I stop talking. Rub my tongue around my sore gums. "Please," I whisper as I bow my head. "That's truly all I know. Please…"

The Speaker nods at Otho the Unspoken. "She speaks the truth, Great Otho. There are no lies on her today."

Otho gives me a leering smile and barks a short series of grunts.

"Yes, Great One. She has become much more docile. Like a wild mare, once her spirit is broken." He turns to me and gestures to the bowl lying on the floor. "Go ahead, Enobaria. You earned it."

I don't hesitate. I fall to my knees in front of the bowl and start shoveling cold, stringy dog meat into my mouth. Grease runs down my chin and onto my fingers and I lick them clean. There are strings of roasted onions and radishes too. I've never tasted anything so delicious in my life. I wash it all down with a skin of sour wine. It smells like piss and tastes worse, but the burst of fire in my belly is enough to wash away some of the pain in my mouth, my half-healed fingers and my ribs, my lacerated back.

Otho the Unspoken watches the spectacle with an amused look. The Speaker paces in front of me, fingering his sword. He has at least three. Beautiful weapons, each with the distinctive look of District 2 craftsmanship. Two broken fingers my first week here taught me not to voice questions about where the Reavers got District 2 weapons.

I'm gnawing at a particularly tough piece of meat when the Speaker squats down and gives me his boyish little grin. "That boy you came here with. Declan, wasn't it? He was wearing a gold tag. He was one of this year's contenders, wasn't he?"

I don't answer with more than a glare. I couldn't even if I wanted to. The meat is really tough. The temptation to spit it in his face passes quickly. I've learned the price of defiance.

The Speaker must see it on my face and laughs. "Good girl. You know, it's sort of ironic, isn't it? The boy who was supposed to take the Trials was the one who was begging you to kill him to save your friends. He was the one who would've been told to murder someone in cold blood for the honor of stepping onto the reaping stage, but you were the one who drew the blade across his neck. Seems to me like you would have been a better choice. Poor, brave Declan didn't have it in him, did he?"

Again, I don't answer. Instead I lick the bowl clean of grease. I try not to pay attention to his words because hearing Declan's name on this man's lips is a greater pain than any they've inflicted on me.

And they've been inventive.

After they dragged me back to the village, after the stream and Pat and the nightlock, they took me to a tiny hut, empty but for a wooden x-frame. They laughed as they bound me to the frame, the leather cords biting deep into my wrists and ankles. Around my neck they put a leather noose, cleverly tied so that it tightens if I struggle. There's just enough room for my head to sag as I sleep. But I don't get much of that anyway.

They left me there for three days. To starve, to grieve, to go mad with dehydration. I cried several times after, for Dec and Maura and poor Pat, but after that first night there was no water left for the tears.

They brought me back before Otho and the Speaker after the third night. By then two men had to hold me steady as we walked into the longhouse. They tied me to one of the support posts and put a bowl of water just out of reach. Then they started asking me questions about 2. The population. The villages. The Institute. The mayor. Even the weather, how hot does it get in summer, how cold in winter?

I shut my mouth and bit my lip but I couldn't stop staring at that bowl of water, and when they finally let two of the dogs lap it up in front of me I broke. I answered the last question, told them how many Victors there are living in 2 (thirteen). The news of Ahenobarbus's death put a smile on quite a few faces. One of the Reavers kicked the bowl in my direction and I gulped it down, burying my face in the hard packed ground to slurp up the mud from where some of it spilled.

After that, the floodgates fell. The Speaker held a waterskin above the bowl and gave me another swallow for every tidbit about the Victors. Even Boudicca's age. Even about how fat Tiberius is. I told them that our youngest Victor is two years out of the arena, that the fifties were a bad decade for Careers in general. I told them the location of the Victors Village.

The Speaker let me drink until I could drink no more. Then they took the first tooth. For lying about the location of the Victors Village. He had known. He had seen the lie.

I took advanced interrogation classes in the Institute as preparation for my future career in the Peacekeepers. I learned to read liar's signs, the blinking, the twitch of a jaw, the shifting of weight that marks a lie. But I never learned how to hide them. I never practiced. No need. Too lazy. Hiding liar's signs was a game for future tributes. Not me.

Stupid, stupid, stupid Baria.

The tip of the sword touches my chin as the Speaker lifts up my head. "If you're done taking advantage of Great Otho's hospitality, he has a few more questions."

"Yes," I whisper. I pull myself to my feet. "Anything the Great Otho wants. I'll tell you everything, just please, please don't hurt me again."

There's a sadistic gleam in Otho's eyes and I know there will be some sort of pain in the near future. Otho's moods are as vast as his belly and as quick to change as a summer storm.

"Great Otho would like to know," says the Speaker in his drawling voice, "about the main military facility in District Two."

"The mountain fortress," I say. "Yes, I – I know a little. We took a field trip there every year. The cadets, I mean. I've been inside."

Otho grunts and makes a few gestures with his hands.

"How big is the fortress?" asks the Speaker. "A rough estimate?"

"There are thirty-nine levels, from the lowest storehouses to the observation platforms near the summit. There are rumors of levels even lower, but I don't know anything about that."

"I see. Are there nuclear weapons within the facility?"

"They said there are, but those facilities were never on the tour."

"Air support?"

"A hovercraft landing platform is built about halfway up on the southwest side. There are three hangers for the military-grade hovercrafts and one for luxury and medical crafts."

How many military-grade hovercrafts per hanger?"

I have to pause to think for a moment. "At least thirty. Possibly more in a pinch."

Otho grunts something to the Speaker, who nods. "Yes, Chief Otho, Enobaria, sweet, how many people can the mountain fortress support? Both martially trained Peacekeepers and support staff?"

I bow my head and make my gambit. "About two thousand, Great Otho."

"Liar." The Speaker sounds amused.

I bite my lip. "Maybe another five hundred. In a pinch. That's all I know, I swear, that's what they told us on the tours."

"Liar," says the Speaker again. "I can see your shoulders tense, your eyes shift, and biting your lip is as good as screaming it out loud. You know what this means, Enobaria. I didn't want to keep doing this, but you must be punished."

"Please," I beg. "Please! I told you everything! I told you about the Victors, about the Village, the Trials, the fortress, I told you the truth, all of it, you know that!"

"And you thought to lure us into a false sense of security so you could try another lie? I'm so disappointed, Enobaria. Three weeks you've been with us and still you're playing these childish games." The Speaker clicks his tongue. Otho claps his hands. Reavers slink out of the shadows from where they've been watching. In half a moment I'm surrounded and forced to my knees.

"Take one from the back. I want her to still be able to talk when it's over.

I try to scream but my breath is closed out by the huge, hairy hands that grip my throat and jaw and force my mouth open. A slender and smooth-cheeked young man who I've identified as what passes for a healer here takes an iron set of pliers and guides it into my mouth. I feel it close around a lower molar. The metal is cold as ice. It tightens and there's a twist and then the young man is tossing my tooth at the Speaker's feet. Then the pain comes, raw and blinding. The men release me and I tumble to the hard-packed floor of the longhouse, coughing and choking and spitting up gobs of dark blood and saliva as laughs ring around me.

"I think we should give Enobaria time to think about what she did," says the Speaker. Otho grunts something that sounds like an affirmative and waves his hand to several of his men. They help him off his throne and he stumbles out of the longhouse, followed as usual by his young serving girls and his mutt-spawn wolf. No doubt they're going to the Cage to watch a dogfight or something similar.

Someone kneels down beside me. A cool cloth wipes the blood from my face.

"Here, drink this."

A skin of wine is pressed to my lips and I drink. It's good wine, bright and sweet, but it's soured by the iron taste of blood. I take a swallow, spit the mess out, then drink deep. The Speaker is watching me, his dark eyes flickering in the light of the fire.

"I'm sorry I had to hurt you, Enobaria. But this is serious business, for us. We're fighting for our lives, our very existence. We need good information from you, the right information. Believe me, I don't like hurting you. I'd much rather we be allies. Even…friends."

I know exactly what he's doing. It's a classic indoctrination technique, making the prisoner believe that she might have a friend in one of her captors, a possible ally and confidant. The Speaker isn't even too bad. His eyes are soft, his hands gentle, even the scar across his face looks less ugly as he talks about how all he wants are for the children to grow up whole and healthy and without the fear getting their tongues ripped out before being shipped to the Capitol.

He's good, I'll give him that. But I've seen better.

Still, as he wipes more blood from my chin, I don't pull away.

"Someday I'd like to show you more of us, Enobaria. We're wanderers, and there are such wonders out here. I think you'd really like it here. You're brave, resourceful. Quite bright too, although you work hard to hide that. And a damn good fighter, of course. You're practically half a Reaver already."

He stands, wipes his hands off on the towel. "So if you have any questions about us, you're free to ask. You know that, right?"

It's a lie and we both know it, because I know there are some questions that I can't ask without a painful answer, like where certain swords came from. Still, I spit out a bit more blood and manage a question, the only one I ever ask in seriousness.

"Who are you, Speaker?" I say through the swollenness and aching pain. "Where did you come from?"

The Speaker turns and gives me a half-smile. "My name is Jace," he says. "I was a simple fisherman from District Four, a second mate on one of the big crab trawlers. I had a wife, a pretty little thing named Rosie. I loved Rosie very much. But then a Capitol liaison took a liking to her. She refused him, as she was already a woman wed. So the Capitol man decided to arrange an 'accident' on the next fishing trip. I only found out because I had a friend in Four's administration. Rosie and I made a run for it, deep into the wilderness. She died of a snakebite two weeks in. The Reavers found me three weeks after that."

I watch him closely. Nothing in his face betrays him. No liar's signs. It is, for all intents and purposes, the truth.

Except that when I asked three days ago, he was from the Capitol, and fled after his debts were called in. And a week ago he was a simple district worker who fell in love with a Victor and had to run after he got her pregnant. And the week before that, he was born a Reaver, the son of a chief and the last survivor of a Capitol raid. And all of those read as truthful as his story today.

The Speaker's face is impassive but his eyes are laughing at me. "Have you figured out the truth, Enobaria?"

"Not yet," I say. "Someday."

He laughs at this. "When Tigellinus retires, perhaps."

He calls in a couple of men to take me back to the hut that serves as my cell. The Speaker is teasing one of the pups with a groosling bone when it hits me.

"How did you know that?"

"Know what, Enobaria?" he asks without looking at me.

"What you said about Tigellinus?"

He turns his head, amused. "You told me about him, remember? Boudicca's second-in-command at your Institute, no wife but his work, universally hated by the cadets, and so on and so forth."

"But I never told you that," I say in a soft voice. "'When Tigellinus retires' is a joke among the cadets. It means something is likely to never happen. And I never told you about that. I had no reason too."

The Speaker makes a scoffing noise, but it all clicks into place. And then the pain through my body is replaced by the white-hot burn of rage and betrayal.

"You're a Two!" I spit. "No, you're more than that, you're one of us! You were at the Institute, you, you snake! You traitor!"

The Speaker arranges his features into a mask of vague disdain, but it's not enough to hide brief glimpse of panic and anger I saw before that. His fingers twitch around the hilt of his sword.

"That's where you got those weapons!" I'm shouting now. "You didn't get them in a raid, you didn't kidnap more cadets other than my friends, you brought them with you from the damned Institute. How could I be so stupid, so blind, you're a fucking Two! A traitorous, son of a mutt, Snow-damned-"

The blow smashes across my cheek. Hard, filled with the anger the Speaker doesn't even bother to hide from his face. I spit out another piece of tooth.

"I'm a Reaver, Enobaria," he says in a furious hiss. "A Reaver, and if you ever forget that I'll be sure my little pet here writes the lesson on your face. Permanently." The tip of the sword runs across my face, and I feel tiny beads of blood drip down. "I'll let you keep your tongue because you need to answer questions. But there are other things you don't need. Your nose. An ear. Eyes."

He turns away and goes back to petting the pup. "Don't forget again. Now get her out of here."

Usually the Speaker supervises the men who restrain me, but I suspect he's barely keeping himself from killing me. The feeling is mutual. Blood is pounding through my temples.

The man who leads me out of the longhouse into the village is middle aged and fat and reeks of wine. I can hear it sloshing around in the skin around his belt. His free hand gropes my breast as he pushes me towards my tiny prison.

"Pretty girl don't make trouble," he growls. Then he smiles. The alcohol on his breath is overwhelming. "No make trouble or Yamo teach you lesson." He gives my breast a firm squeeze.

Over the past three weeks, I've received many such gropes and grabs, but nothing more than that. I assume the Speaker has forbidden it. Maybe they want to sell me as a concubine to some chief when this is done. Still, I bow my head and stumble along. "Yes, great Yamo," I whisper. "I'll be good. Please don't hurt me, please."

This seems to please Yamo immensely. He pushes me into my prison hut and follows. I stand there, cowed, as Yamo takes a swallow of wine.

"Please," I say as I stare at the skin. "Please, just a bit? I'm so thirsty. Please, have mercy."

Yamo looks to the skin, then to me. "You want drink?" he asks. He brings to the skin to my lips, then pulls it away at the last moment. "None for you! All for Yamo!" he bellows as he takes another huge swig. The purple liquid dribbles down his chin.

"Yes," I say. "Yes, all for Yamo. A little for Baria? Please?"

Yamo gives me a pitying look, then relents. "Oh yes. One drink for Baria." Again, he brings the wineskin to my lips, and again he pulls it away. He laughs uproariously at my gullibility and drinks again.

"None for girl. Baria our prisoner. Must behave first!" He twists one of my many braids around his finger. "Yamo like pretty prisoner."

"Not my hair!" I sob. "Please, no, don't touch my hair." I slap his hand away. This angers Yamo, who scowls.

"My hair!" he shouts. "Yamo keep hair!"

In a flash he has a knife out. It slices through the braid, with falls to the ground. I let sobs shake my body. "Okay, you have my hair, no more, please no more!"

"Yamo take more! Yamo take all!"

In less than a minute, my hair is shorn brutally short and twenty long ropes of hair are on the ground. Yamo picks one up and laughs. "Present for Yamo!" he says as he tucks it into his pocket. Then he drinks. And drinks again.

By the time he ties me to the x-frame, his hands are fumbling and shaking. Yamo manages to stoop down and tie my ankles securely. My wrists are more of a challenge, he's not a tall man. But eventually I'm secured again and he steps back to admire his handiwork.

"You no escape from Yamo!"

"No," I say. "I'm so helpless, so helpless, I can't do anything. Please, Yamo, a drink, just one drink."

Yamo takes his skin and splashes some wine in my face. It stings my eyes.

"There! You drink!"

He laughs and leaves the tent, one braid of my hair in his pocket, the rest on the ground. I'm left sobbing and shivering, bound hand and foot, helpless and alone.

As soon as he's gone, I start to laugh.

"Oh, Yamo, you poor drunk son of a mutt. You forgot something."

The noose that's supposed to go around my neck is lying three feet away.

It takes an hour to wriggle the leather binding a foot down the frame. But finally I can twist my neck and press my face against my wrist.

"You're not the only one who can lie, Speaker," I whisper.

The pain in my mouth from my pulled and broken teeth is blinding. And inconsequential. I'm not going to let pain stop me. I'm not going to let anything stop me ever again.

My remaining teeth close around the leather binding my wrist and I begin to chew.


	5. Chapter 5

It's past midnight when Yamo returns to the hut to check on prisoner. He's still drunk, his eyes red-rimmed and his words slurred. He's singing a lewd song as he shovels hunks of dog-meat stew into his mouth from a clay bowl. Yamo fingers the braid of black hair in his pocket as he turns to leer at the pretty district girl strung up on the wooden frame.

The bowl falls from his hand and shatters on the ground, splattering his feet with stew.

He looks about wildly, desperate, knowing it's his life if the prisoner escaped on his watch. From the shadows in the darkest corner, something moves.

Yamo's scream is cut off as the cord wraps around his neck. Strong hands pull and twist and Yamo's face turns red. He beats his feet against the ground and tears his fingernails off as he grasps and scratches at the cord choking out his life. Blood makes his fingers slip. His face turns purple. The cord presses deeper as the hands pull it even tighter.

Yamo gives a final gurgle and goes limp. The hands continue to pull in case it's a last desperate feint. The sour smell of urine fills the hut as the corpse's bowels release. The body slumps to the ground.

I lean down, letting the cord I twisted together from the cut braids of my own hair slide out of my fingers onto Yamo's still chest.

"Hair for Yamo," I whisper.

I search the body, coming up with nothing of worth except for a simple bone knife. It will have to be enough. I crouch at the doorway and listen for the sounds of human presence – footsteps, breathing, a cough. Once I'm sure there's no one nearby, I slip out of the hut and slink to the edge of the village, skirting around the huts towards the longhouse. A mangy bitch catches my scent and gives low growl. I hold still, letting her sniff my feet before sauntering away. Another mistake of the Reavers. The dogs are used to my scent by now. They won't alert their masters of anything amiss until it's too late.

I feel the first twinge of unease as I reach the Cage. It's dark and silent, the only sound the whispering of the wind. Usually there are at least one or two Reavers here, sprawled out drunk or playing games of chance for the pitiful wealth they have. But tonight, nothing. I don't like it when too many things go right.

I crouch down next to the longhouse and begin cutting through the hide wall. Yamo's bone knife is crude but sharp; even so it takes far longer than I'd like to cut away enough for me to slip through. Again, no one comes to investigate the sounds I can't help make despite my best efforts. My unease triples.

Finally I'm able to slide through the hides and into the longhall. I come out behind the throne of Otho the Unspoken just as I planned. I crouch behind it and let my eyes adjust to the dim light of flickering coals in the fire pit. My breath is coming in raw, shallow gasps. I take a precious second to slow my heartbeat and let my body relax before I slip out into the light of the fires.

I realize instantly that the longhall is nearly empty. Usually most of Otho's favorites sleep here where the fires are warmest and the food and drink is always plentiful. But now there are only a few shapes sprawled around the fire and against the walls. Not including the two guards permanently stationed outside the door, there are a dozen, no more. More importantly, the mass of furs and soiled silks where Otho sleeps is empty save for two young bedwarmers. The nearby mat where the Speaker sleeps is also empty of occupants.

Resisting the urge to curse, I slide over to the Speaker's mat and search the furs. Nothing. Not even a stale crust of bread. I feel the rage pounding against my skull. Gone, all gone. Gone beyond my grasp, beyond my vengeance.

No. I am not walking away from this empty.

I grip the bone knife tightly and move over to Otho's bedspace. In one quick movement my hand covers the mouth of one of his bed warmers and my knife presses against her ribs. Her eyes fly open, wide with fear, her whimper smothered by my iron grip. Her companion doesn't even stir.

"Up," I hiss.

She obliges, struggling out of the furs and standing with her back to me so I can whisper in her ear.

"Make one sound above a whisper and this goes straight into your heart. Where are Otho and the Speaker?"

"Gone," she whispers.

"_Gone where?"_

"I do not know. They took many warriors and left before sundown. They do not tell me where the tribes meet."

Things click into place. "Tribes? There are more of you? More Reaver tribes?"

She nods and I want to laugh and spit at myself in disgust. The Speaker told me they were the last of the Reavers. He lied, and I swallowed it wholesale. And Otho and the Speaker are far beyond my grasp. Tonight, at least. Still, there are compensations to be had.

"Show me where the swords are," I tell the girl.

"I do not know-"

"Don't lie to me. The swords. The Speaker always has at least one. Unless he's carrying three on his belt, some are still here. Show me."

For a moment I think my gamble has failed and I'll have to kill this girl and go to the next one. But after long painful moments she starts to move towards the back of the longhouse.

Otho's throne is built on a natural pedestal of stone, a mammoth contraption of carved wood and bone covered in more furs. The girl kneels down by its side and removes a wolf fur. The stone is cracked here, and deep within I can see the faint glimmer of metal. I keep the knife pressed against the girl as I move closer. There are more weapons and gaudy, dated jewelry, old books and bizarre carved icons. And there, a beautiful hand-and-a-half sword, a bastard sword.

"Pull it out," I tell her.

I snatch it from her grasp as soon as she complies. It's a bit heavier than I'm used to, but well-balanced and sharp as a razor. I grip the hilt. It may just be a figment of my fractured psyche, but I feel it hum, feel it throb with joy as a District 2 hand finally grips it again, feel the strength of the mountains and the stone and sky above them, the strength of my people flowing down the cold steel into my body.

_Kill them all, Baria._

The girl dies without a sound as I draw the sword across her neck. I step out of the way of the toppling body, ignoring the spray of blood that speckles me. I walk away confidently. I have no need for stealth now.

Only one old woman wakes as I walk by her towards the fire pit, but the sword takes her life faster than a striking snake. The fire has burned low but I still find a half-burned stick blazing merrily. I take it and go to the wall of the longhouse, holding the brand against the hides and using long, slow breaths to coax the embers into a new, bright blaze.

It takes a long half-minute for the rest of the inhabitants to realize the longhouse is ablaze. By then, flaming bits of hide are raining down around and the smoke is beginning to fill the enclosed space. They run screaming into the night, calling for water and buckets, snatching up whatever possessions they can in their flight. The two guards race in to investigate, coughing in the smoke. Then they see me.

The first comes at me hesitantly, raising his spear as he thrusts it forward. It's so easy to dodge the blow, slice through the shaft, then take off his head in the follow through. The other man watches his comrade's head roll away from the girl covered in blood and decides he wants to live.

He doesn't. I give a scream of joy as I cut him down.

The longhouse is well on its way to an inferno by the time I step outside, taking long breaths of clean, fresh air. People are running in all directions, dogs are barking, children crying. There are precious few warriors left in the village, but those who remain are racing towards the longhouse with baskets and buckets of water. They let them fall when they see me and the blood-soaked sword that throws the firelight back into their faces.

_Kill them all, Baria._

Four of them come at me with two dogs. I cut one bitch down, sending the other howling into the night with a missing paw. The warriors – two men, one woman, and one masked – take a hesitant step backwards.

"Don't you fuckers run from me," I whisper, and leap forward.

The first man is reasonably skilled with his club. He ducks and parries, trying to be unpredictable. The woman, who looks enough like him to be his sister, tries to aid him by thrusting at me with her own spear. I slice the head of the spear, spinning away from the club as I bring my sword down. It cuts into his arm and he drops the club with a howl. A second thrust buries itself into his belly. The woman gives a roar of rage and throws herself at me, bringing me down to the ground. We roll around, her biting and scratching despite being wounded again and again. Finally I throw her off and thrust the sword up into her neck. I don't have time to breathe, however, as the masked Reaver launches himself at me.

He manages to knock the sword out of my hand and kneels on top of me, wrapping his hands around my throat and choking me. I gasp and gargle, trying to feel my sword with my grasping fingers, but it's no use. Instead I thrust my knee between his legs and when he howls I manage to press my thumb into his eye, driving him back. A shove and a well-executed kick sends him back into a fire pit. He leaps up, screaming, the flames consuming his rags and dancing off his polished mask. He disappears into the night, the fire billowing from his body.

I look around for the fourth man. He's long gone. I bend over with a grunt of pain and retrieve my sword. The faint hiss warns me and I twist as an arrow buries itself in the muscle of my left bicep. I give a roar of pain and pull it out, breathing thanks that it's not my sword arm. Twenty yards away, the young boy who mocked and teased us as we were bound in the center of the camp turns to run with a terrified look, letting his bow fall to the ground.

He makes it another twenty yards.

After that no one, human or dog, attacks me. The burning long house sends wreaths of sparks through the air, setting other huts ablaze. I take a brand from another fire pit and help out, setting each crude structure alight, grinning at the screams of those who chose to hide inside their little abodes. Most of those who remain are fleeing into the unforgiving wilderness. For the most part I let them go, but some of them I decide should die. A woman helping along an old father. A girl dragging her brother away from their burning hut. A young man and his new wife who make a cursory defense. A burning man, or maybe it's a woman, screaming insanely, put out of their misery.

_Kill them all, Baria._

After there are no more huts to burn, no more fleeing Reavers to cut down, no more bloody vengeance to let soak into the thirsty ground, it's then that the pain hits me. The pain of every wound, every torture, held at bay for weeks. The sword falls from my grasp and I collapse in the center of what was the Reaver village. The heat of the burning longhouse at my back is oppressive, but I'm beyond caring. There's a bucket on the ground still half-filled with water. I take a long drink and pour the rest over my head. Finally, I lay down and sleep on the blood-soaked dirt. The last thing I hear is the longhouse collapsing with a roar.

I'm still there when the sun rises. No one has dared return to the village, now just piles of charred wood and hide. A great cloud of smoke rises from the remains, sending a signal that's probably visible for dozens of miles.

Bizarrely it's a mockingjay that alerts me. I sit up at the soft little trill, watching the sky. For a moment there's nothing, then the cloaking device drops and the hovercraft appears out of thin air. It soars down gracefully, landing fifty yards from the edge of the burnt-out village. A ramp lowers and people start running toward me. They're wearing Peacekeeper whites. I can hear the orders shouted, to fan out, secure the perimeter, be on guard for hostiles.

They get within ten feet of me before they notice me. I stare at the man. He's young. He looks like Pat. I smile.

"Captain! Captain, there's a live one here!"

"Secure it!"

A dozen pistols are pointed at me in half a heartbeat. I raise my hands above my head as I slowly struggle to my feet.

"No sudden moves, Reaver! Keep your hands there where we can see them!"

The deep, familiar voice rattles around my brain and I start laughing.

"You came to see me, sir! You really do care!"

"Keep your mouth shut, Reaver!"

I turn slowly, facing the two men who stand just beyond the circle of Peacekeepers surrounding me.

"'When Tigellinus retires.' That's what we always said. Did you retire, Tigellinus? Or are we dead, dead and all here together now?"

Recognition clicks into place, followed by clear shock. "By the State. _Malachite?!'_

"And Captain Clay too. How nice. Am I still suspended? Did the Headmistress send you? Are we going back for the Trials now? We're not late, are we?"

"She's a few tributes short of a reaping," comes a distant voice. It makes me laugh harder.

"Tell the Headmistress…I'll be good now…no more sneaking out….no more, no….more…"

Strong hands catch me before I fall. The bright sky goes black. Tigellinus is still there, telling me to hold on, screaming at someone to get the medic and prep for immediate takeoff, but his voice fractures and disappears as the welcome oblivion finally takes me.

* * *

_Ma loves the wildflowers that grow on the south slopes. Dad will pick them for her when she's feeling sad and she'll always smile at him and give him a kiss on the cheek. She's sad today. I ask her why and she says that it's just something that happens to women sometimes, especially when they have a baby in their belly like she does._

_I pick her the flowers after school and bring them home. Ma calls me her best little girl and gives me a kiss. I'm glad Virto and Seb aren't home yet to laugh at me being a girl, even though I can run faster and punch better than either of them._

_She's putting the flowers in the nice vase when the rumbles start. The vase tumbles off the counter and shatters even though no one touched it. Ma runs to the window._

"_Baria, get under the table!" she screams. "Now, girl, now!"_

_But I can't move, I'm frozen as the rumble becomes a roar, and Ma picks me up and throws me under the heavy table even as the walls come falling down around us. I hold her hand tight, telling her that it's dark and I'm scared._

_I'm still holding the hand when they dig me out three days later._

I wake up and nearly cry out loud from the pain. It fills my mouth and neck. As I gain clarity, the pain increases, in my ribs, my shoulder, my arm, my legs. And my eyes, as the bright lights glare around me, and I squint them shut and slowly reopen as they adjust.

"Where…where…"

"Don't talk yet," says a voice on my right. Low, calm, somehow very familiar. "You're at the Institute. In the infirmary. And before you ask, it's been three days since we brought you back. Now relax, if your vitals spike any more the medics will throw a fit and we need to talk to you."

As my eyes finally adjust, I can make out a crowd of people around my bed. The walls are white and stark. A woman in the white tunic of a medic is glaring disapprovingly. She's seated on my left, next to a plethora of machines that seem to be monitoring my vitals and feeding me half a dozen liquids through tubes in my left arm. Beyond her are several Peacekeepers. I recognize Captain Clay and an older man beside him. The commander of the district Peacekeeper forces. I've seen him at the reaping and Victory Tour every year.

And there to my right is Tigellinus. I give a small smile, glad to see the grizzled deputy for the first time in my life. Boudicca is seated to my right, stern and cold as always. Two more Victors are behind her. Dido, the appallingly cheerful woman who collected my friends from the Three Cousins the night everything changed. And another, a handsome, kind looking man nearing his forties. I recognize him as Ares Valerio, the Victor of the Forty-First. The Victor who sponsored Declan in the Trials.

"He missed the Trials," I whisper. "Declan missed the Trials. He'll be so disappointed."

Everyone gathered around me tries to avoid my gaze, looking at each other awkwardly.

I sigh. "I know. He's dead. I know." I look at Ares. I need to make him understand. "He wanted it more than anything. He wanted to serve the district and the country. It was all he ever wanted. He would…He would've made you so proud."

"I believe it," says Ares in a soft voice. "He was a good man, a good cadet. I know this sounds hollow, but I have greatly mourned his loss."

"And now we must know how it came about," says Boudicca, her eyes boring into my skull.

The medic bristles. "Is this necessary? My patient has already suffered severe trauma, and to make her relive it before she's even settled-"

"It is necessary," says the commander. "I'm sorry, but my orders come from the top. The _top._ I need every bit of information Ms. Malachite can provide, and I need it now."

"Enobaria Malachite, look at me." A lifetime of jumping at the sound of that voice is ingrained too deep for me to refuse. I meet the Headmistress's gaze. "We need you to tell us everything. Everything you remember. That's an order, cadet."

I take a deep swallow. The medic presses a glass to my lips and I sip some water. I breathe deep and tell them.

The goat and the ravine. The ambush. Pat hurt. Chained in the Reaver square. Otho the Unspeakable. The dogs. The Speaker. Their questions. Their plan. Their torture.

I can't tell them about Declan. I can't tell them about the knife and game and Pat eating the nightlock. I tell them my friends died under questioning. No one questions it, not even the Headmistress, even though I know I'm not fooling her for a second.

The long weeks of interrogation. Discovering that the Speaker is from 2. My teeth. Drunken Yamo. The hair. The longhouse burning. The slaughter. The inferno. The hovercraft gliding down. Here.

Occasionally someone will make a sound of horror or disgust. Only the Headmistress remains silent. I'm grateful.

"Tigellinus has been joining the patrols ever since you four went missing," says the commander, as if this will be some small comfort. "He's been particularly vehement about it, especially after we found the remains in the ravine. We were making one last patrol before officially regulating you to KIA when we saw the smoke signal. That was ingenious, by the way."

"Do you have everything you need, Commander? If so, Enobaria Malachite requires rest." If the Headmistress was speaking to me in that tone, I'd be running back to the wilderness, injuries or no.

The commander makes a few notes and ushers his men out. Dido and Ares follow, the first giving me a wink and the latter squeezing my hand. Finally the medic and Boudicca are left. The medic is still glaring. Boudicca raises an eyebrow. The medic knows when she's beaten and walks in a huff, leaving me alone with the Headmistress.

"I remember saying I hoped we would meet again in better circumstances, Enobaria Malachite," she says. "It is unfortunate that this is not the case." She sighs and runs her fingers through her long copper and silver hair. It's somehow a more human gesture than what I'm used to seeing from her. "How did your friends die?"

I close my eyes. I don't want to tell her.

"It won't be any less real by keeping silent. They were your friends but they were my cadets."

"They made us play games," I say.

Boudicca doesn't speak.

"We played games. To see who would live. They set dogs on us. They killed Maura. I watched."

My hands twist into my sheets. "They made Patrocles and I run. They said they'd kill one of us. Pat was hurt, he wanted me to get away. He…he ate nightlock. He told me to kill them all and ate the nightlock."

"And Declan." The Headmistresses voice is hard as granite.

"I killed him," I whispered. "They were torturing Pat and said one of us had to die to save him and I killed Declan. He asked me to and I killed him."

Boudicca leans back, staring at the wall. "And why did you survive?"

I stare at her. "I told you, they wanted one of us to use as a spy, they made us play to narrow it down to one-"

"Yes, Enobaria Malachite. And why were you the one who survived? Why did Declan not kill you? Why didn't you eat the nightlock?"

I glare at her, hating her and hating that she's making me say it. "Because I wanted to live."

Boudicca nods. "Thank you for telling me the truth. I do not think less of you for it. I will keep this in my confidence."

I sigh and rest my head against the pillow. "So what happens now?"

"We catch them. Local Peacekeeping forces are spread a little thin at the moment and the wilderness is a big place with plenty of ways to hide. Even if we have to request Capitol backup, however, we will catch them and bring them to justice."

I swallow, feeling the spaces where my teeth were. "I meant what happens to me? The Trials are over, the reaping is coming up, and then I age out. When do I start working?"

Boudicca tugs at an errant corner of my sheet. "That's up to the medic to determine, but my hope is to have you largely recuperated by the Choosing Feast."

"Good. And then I'll be able to join?"

Boudicca raises her eyebrow. "Join what, Enobaria Malachite?"

"The hunt! For the Speaker and Otho! I need to go, I need to help!"

The Headmistress bristles. "If you so choose to continue a career with the Peacekeepers, you will be placed wherever command sees fit. And command will never permit a recent trauma patient to engage in such a crucial operation, especially when she's personally invested."

Disbelief and anger swell up inside me. "But it was me they took! Me they tortured! I have a right-"

"Right?" Boudicca stands. "Right? Don't talk to me about right. Your life is one of service. To the Capitol and to whatever ends they and those they command see fit. You are not owed or obligated any privilege, any assignment, do you understand me?"

The anger at the injustice is so great I can't speak.

"I will forget this outburst in light of the circumstances," says Boudicca as she moves towards the door. "Get some rest now. You have a lot of painful recuperation to face."

I make one last gamble as she turns away. "Headmistress. Please. If you told them. If you asked. They would listen to you. Please. We all know the story, your story I mean, how you freed yourself and won the Games and built the Institute. You have to understand. I need to do this!"

She turns. "It's true, that as a Victor I have great influence. I, however, earned it. And I don't grant favors to beggars. Good night, Enobaria Malachite."

She leaves, switching the lights off as she goes, leaving me alone in the dark with my tears and my hate.

* * *

**In case you missed it from The Victors Project: Broken computer, lots of work lost, tears, cake, back on track. I'm very behind with reviews and emails, so take this as a personal thank you for all your continued support.**


	6. Chapter 6

The girl in the mirror is a stranger. Gaunt cheekbones, ragged black hair, eyes hollow and sunken. Scars that lace up to her neck and cover her arms. The red tunic lies limp on her body like a second skin two sizes too large. She glares back at me, a living cadaver, each breath and heartbeat an effort.

I finish cleaning my teeth and wince as I spit into the sink. My mouth is still sore. The medics replaced six teeth, pulled out or loosened. It wasn't the first time; growing up in the Institute guarantees a broken or knocked-loose tooth at least once a year. But now I roll my tongue around, feeling the new teeth, each one a stranger in my body. Each one an attempt to make it all normal again. I hate them.

The girl's lavatory is empty except for me. Everyone is probably assembled in the Great Hall. I wish I could stay here all night, curl up in one of the stalls and ignore the distant sounds of laughter and cheers and feasting. But my presence is expected; Tigellinus made a point of informing me directly. So I'll go. I'll sit and listen to the names and watch my fellow cadets celebrate like they deserve to. They have no right.

I splash cold water on my face, relishing the chills it sends down my body. I suppose there's no more avoiding it. I don't bother combing my hair or trying to wash the spots out of my tunic. Let Tigellinus scowl all he wants. I leave the lavatory behind and walk down the silent, empty halls of the Institute to the Great Hall and the Choosing Feast.

The reaping is tomorrow. Tonight, we find out who the Headmistress has chosen to represent District 2 in this year's Hunger Games. The Gold Tags who made it successfully through all three Trials will be hoping, praying that it's their name, that all their bruises and broken bones and training and scraping will have paid off. After the feast, the cadets will be released for the one night of the year we have off, to go out into the Little Capitol and drink and wench and be…be…normal.

Maura and I scraped together our pocket money for two years so we could celebrate properly when Declan was named tribute. I kept it in a little glass jar under my cot. It's gone now. I checked.

Snow, just let this be over soon.

The Great Hall is bright and noisy. The high dais is filled with the past Victors. Boudicca is in the center, beneath the brass plates with the names of all our fallen tributes. Below them is a table for the Institute instructors, with Tigellinus at the head. The four hundred cadets fill the rest of the Hall, laughing, arm wrestling, rough-housing and craning their necks to see if the Headmistress has stood yet.

The noise level drops as I enter. I see the looks, the darting glances. The Gold Tags don't notice, or pretend not to. My fellow eighteens, the ones about to age out, are subtly spread out so there's not quite enough room for one more at the table.

Fuck them. I stalk over to the thirteens, push a startled girl over, and sit down. A gap-toothed boy who has been unfortunately assaulted by puberty stares openly at me. I give him a hiss. He turns a frightening shade of scarlet but doesn't look away.

It's going to be a long night.

I fiddle with a butter knife as the last stragglers hurry in, imagining sinking it into the eye of everyone who looks at me. The noise level suddenly swoops and then falls in a hush. I glance up. Sure enough, the Headmistress is on her feet, a pewter cup in her hand.

"Twenty-three of you sit before me with the Gold Tag around your neck. You fought for this honor, trained, bled. Some of you passed the Trials. Some did not. There is no dishonor in either. But only two of you will be named tonight as the tributes of the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games. This is the greatest service any son or daughter of District Two can give. To willingly sacrifice your life so that another may live in peace and security. Make no mistake, even if one of you walks out a Victor, it is still a sacrifice. Your life is no longer your own, but an instrument of the Capitol. If any one of you is unwilling to take on this yoke, speak now."

The silence is complete. The Gold-Tags are leaning forward eagerly. I stab the table a few times. The gap-toothed boy glares at me.

"Before I give the names, there is another sacrifice to honor. Not all of us are called to give up our lives in the arena, but that does not make our service or sacrifice any less. Tonight, we honor three who gave up their lives in service to our great nation. I ask you now to lift your glasses to Mauritania, Patrocles, and Declan."

Four hundred glasses raise, four hundred voices mutter the names of my friends. I grip the knife with a tightening fist, feeling the metal bend as it digs into my palm.

"Their names will be added to those in the Chapel of Remembrance alongside the martyrs from the Dark Days. May their names be a candle in the night, a light against the darkness of disorder."

I wish she would shut up. Maura was no candle in the darkness. She was a loud, crude joke in the halls, a roaring laugh and a gentle touch. Pat was a strut and a boast, a comrade in mischief and a boy eager for praise. And Declan was a close hug, an awkward lover, a stolen strawberry shared between two nervous twelve-year olds. Boudicca knows nothing, nothing, _nothing._

"And now the Choosing."

The silence is so overwhelming I could swim through it.

"The male tribute for the Sixty-Second Hunger Games is Orion Baker."

The eighteen year old who stands is muscled like a giggling girl's fantasy. Black hair, all-Panem good looks. He walks up to the dais with all the easy confidence and casual viciousness that Declan lacked. Orion kneels in front of the Headmistress as she speaks again.

"Orion Baker. You endured a Trial of Flesh, and your heart still beats. You endured a Trial of Spirit, and your spirit did not break. You endured a Trial of Blood, and you overcame it. Accept this token, to take into the arena as a reminder of your district and your duty."

Boudicca places a chain with a platinum tag around his neck. It's the traditional district token of every District 2 tribute. Orion stands and raises a fist as the cheers break out. The gap-toothed boy bangs his cup against the table. It's sort of galling.

The Headmistress waits for the cheers to die down before announcing the second tribute. I'm only half-listening, so I don't at first understand the reaction when Boudicca has to repeat herself.

"I said, the female tribute for the Sixty-Second Hunger Games is Enobaria Malachite."

Oh. Well.

Fuck.

Four hundred pairs of eyes are flashing in my direction. Even the Victors look astonished. One of the instructors is slack-jawed. Only Tigellinus looks like this is not a surprise whatsoever. The silence is broken by a hundred whispers, hissing through the air like tracker jackers.

I'm still gripping my knife. Or what's left of it. She can't have. She wouldn't. She _couldn't. Why…?_

There's a sharp pain in my side as my gap-toothed companion digs his elbow into me. "Get up there, Malachite! The Headmistress called you!"

I rise like I'm in a dream. Somehow my feet move me forward to the dais. The Headmistress is waiting for me, her eyes watching me like a mutt stalking its prey.

"She didn't even take the Trials!" comes a voice from the eighteens, swiftly cut off as Boudicca glances in their direction. Still, some of the Gold Tags are looking furious.

"Kneel, Enobaria Malachite," says Boudicca when I'm in front of her. I do.

"Enobaria Malachite. You endured a Trial of Flesh, and your heart still beats. You endured a Trial of Spirit and your spirit did not break. You endured a Trial of Blood, and you _bathed _in it_._ Accept this token, to take into the arena as a reminder of your district and your duty."

She places the platinum tag around my neck. I risk a look upward.

"Why?" I whisper.

"You know why, Enobaria Malachite," she whispers back.

I stand and face the Institute. A smatter of applause breaks out among the thirteens, a swell of sound that slowly crests back to the front of the hall. Boudicca gives my back a small nudge and I walk back to my seat in a daze.

The platinum chain around my neck feels as heavy as a boulder. The thirteens all crane their necks to get a closer look, poking and prodding each other as my eyes stare at the table. I'm going to the Games. _I'm _going into the Hunger Games. The highest honor. One I never wanted.

Declan, I'm so sorry.

The food is served, roast pork cooked in peaches and apples, fresh summer salad, biscuits and honey and rounds of cheese. I eat mechanically, shoveling the food that turns to ash in my mouth. Soon I push my plate away, my appetite completely gone.

It must have been the camp. The slaughter. I told Boudicca what happened there and Tigellinus probably told her more about what they found. Boudicca must have decided I was broken beyond repair, good for nothing except butchery. She's sending me into the Games to kill children for the entertainment of the Capitol, one last use for the ruined girl from the Reaver camp. Paint a few cameras with blood, go a little crazy, die as the Capitolians cheer and yell and throw popcorn at the screen.

I remember her in the infirmary. Cold and empty. Immune to my pain, unheeding of my need for vengeance. Lecturing me about duty.

_It's true, that as a Victor I have great influence. I, however, earned it. And I don't grant favors to beggars._

My hand grasps the chain around my neck. Boudicca doesn't grant favors to beggars.

So I earned this. I earned it.

_As a Victor I have great influence._

And I cannot seek out the Reavers and take revenge until I've earned that as well. My survival awarded me the opportunity. And now the Headmistress is letting me take it.

I raise my eyes to the dais where the Victors are talking and eating. I stare at the Headmistress. After a few long minutes she feels my eyes on her and meets them. It lasts only a second before she returns to her food. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Or the distance, or something in my eye. But I could have sworn she winked.

I'm suddenly aware that there's a delicious looking slice of pork on my plate and I dig in with relish.

* * *

The morning of the reaping for the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games is hot and dry and I will remember every detail for the rest of my life.

The square in the city is decked with banners and garlands of flowers. The stage is draped with cloth-of-gold and deep plum velvet. People from the Capitol are everywhere, holding cameras, microphones, taking interviews and shouting order. The Victors assemble on stage, followed by the mayor, several dignitaries, and the escort.

I stand at attention with the other eighteen year olds. My red tunic is crisp and pressed, my hair gleams, my boots polished to a shine. There's a girl in a bright yellow sundress standing next to me. Her eyes keep darting to the platinum chain around my neck. The rest of the square is filled with as many people as it can hold. The rest of the district, the people without eligible family members, will be watching from other parts of the district. The eyes of the nation are upon us.

The mayor, his image projected on the huge screens that surround us, reads the Treaty of Treason in slow, onerous tones as the flags flap around him. Then he names all of our past Victors. Fourteen at all. Maura and I used to giggle at some of the other districts, the ones that only have two or three names to read. It doesn't seem so funny now.

The mayor takes his seat and the escort steps up, welcoming us to the reaping as usual. I'm not entirely sure how many escorts District 2 has had in my lifetime. Even when someone new takes over, they take on the same character as the last – a goat-footed satyr named Pan. This particular Pan has golden horns sticking out of his golden curls, white fur covering his lower body, and gold-painted hooves. His voice is high and lilting and it grates on my nerves as he bleats on about how honored he is to be here once again.

"As tradition dictates, let us start first with the girls," he says. The bowl is overflowing, no one in 2 fears to take tesserae when there are always beautiful, brave volunteers ready to step up. I will myself to not make a move when the hand goes into the bowl and a slip is pulled.

He calls the name, one I forget right away. A seventeen year old steps up onto the stage. Her hair is in two silly braids, tied with big blue bows. She puts on a brave face and even gives a little wave to someone in the crowd. Pan coos over her hair a bit and then makes the call for volunteers.

The girl in the yellow sundress instantly steps back to let me pass, her head bowed in respect. The girls around us see and do the same. I step out into the aisle and look up to the stage. The timing is perfect, the reaped girl has just started to look around in fear when I say the words.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

The cameras are instantly on me. I ignore my image on the screens as I walk up to the stage. The girl steps down, giving me a little curtsy. I give her a nod. It's all play acting for the cameras, of course, but it looks good. I'm sure the girl will be the most interesting thing in her school for the next couple of months.

In seconds I'm on the stage, standing at parade rest with my feet apart and my hands clasped behind my back. Pan is shoving the microphone into my face.

"How lovely, how splendid! What an exciting reaping already! And what's your name, my dear?"

I lean forward. "Enobaria Malachite."

"Lovely. A good, strong name. One I'm sure we'll remember for a long, long time!"

"Don't worry," I say as I bare my teeth. "You will."

The crowd applauds. It's dutiful but genuine, unlike most of the other districts. There are even a few whoops and I catch a glimpse of two young men with the girl I volunteered for, pumping their fists and hollering. I feel the heat rise in my neck. What's wrong with me?

Orion volunteers for a fourteen year old who's already muscled from the quarries but dwarfed by the man who steps up to replace him. Pan goes through the courtesies again and Orion receives his applause and cheers. Our escort lifts up our hands together as the anthem plays. We know what's expected of us. Orion smirks and flexes. I keep my features smooth and reverential.

"Alright tributes, shake hands. Let's show them what good sportsmanship is!"

I've seen tributes try to break each other's hands before, growling and hissing, especially in 1 where there is no such thing as district loyalties but it's not uncommon among our own tributes. Orion and I simply grip firm and give one shake. Orion gives me a short nod and I decide that I may have my first ally for the arena.

The Justice Building is all cold marble and granite and soft velvet furniture. Pan drops off Orion then leads me to the small, intimate sitting room where tributes say their final good-byes. It's sparse but comfortable, with oak paneled walls and bright full windows. There's a table with a chunk of amethyst and a bowl of fruit. I take an orange and peel it as I wait for my one guaranteed visitor.

Sure enough, the Headmistress walks in as I'm finishing the orange. She walks to the window and looks out for a long minute.

"We do what we must, Enobaria Malachite," she says. Then she turns and looks at me. "You're not afraid."

I shake my head. "Not in the least."

She give a wry smile. "I remember when I was here. No one came to see me. Not that I expected anyone. My mind was on the Games and solely the Games. It was so long ago."

She comes over and sits beside me. "I've been waiting for someone like you for a very long time, Enobaria. Someone…unconventional. Someone who has seen the worst of injustice and chaos and will do anything to put it to right. Don't disappoint me."

I swallow. "I won't, Headmistress."

She takes a grape, pops it in her mouth. "I traditionally give one piece of advice to every tribute. One that you are free to heed or discard as you see fit. Here is mine to you." She takes another grape. "Before Phoebus won the Sixtieth Games, the outlying districts won five times in a row. There were many reasons for this, but one of the most significant was that the Career alliance kept falling apart early. Bad blood, rivalries, the arena itself all played a part. Phoebus was able to keep the pack together by seducing half of them. Last year, Crystal reminded the audience that they had missed their beautifully deadly girls. Neither of these are going to work for you."

I give a snort. "Thank the State." She raises an eyebrow. "Sorry, Headmistress. You were saying?"

"You have a gift, Enobaria. You create bonds easily, and they grow strong. Bonds as strong as blood. That's why the scars you've already suffered will never fully fade. Use this. Bond with your allies. Keep them together through the force of your will. Control them, and you control the Games. But more importantly, make them want that control. Make them crave it."

I nod slowly. "So you want me to pretend to make friends with the alliance, and then kill them."

"I want you to actually make friends with the alliance, and then kill them."

I stare at the wall for long seconds.

_Kill them all, Baria._

I turn back. "We do what we must, Headmistress."

She inclines her head. "You are no longer my cadet, and I am no longer your teacher. You may call me Boudicca."

I grimace. "I think that may take some getting used to, Headmi – ma'am."

She smirks. "Yes, I've been told. Ares was particularly terrified of being informal with me, I remember."

She stands. "I suggest you use the rest of your time here to meditate on your duty. And try one of the pomegranates. They're fresh." Boudicca gives me one last look and glides out of the room.

Meditating on duty isn't exactly my thing, so I settle for pacing the room, waiting for the hour to tick by. I'm surprised, however, when the door opens again and I get another visitor.

Tigellinus takes a seat on the couch and glares up at me with that look he has, like he knows what I've done wrong and he's going to give me the chance to confess first.

"I was supposed to go into the Games, you know," he says with a wry smile. "The Forty-Sixth. I passed the Trials in record time. When Boudicca said my name at the feast it was the proudest moment of my life. Then at the reaping another cadet spoke up and volunteered before I had the chance. A rival, not even a Gold Tag, and I didn't know the protocol to overrule him. Well, he had no sponsors thanks to the mentor teams. Killed by the boy from Five, a particularly boring Victor himself. Idiot boy. Served him right."

I'm not entirely sure why I'm being subjected to the whimsical memories of Boudicca's deputy, but before I can say anything he goes on.

"I blame myself in part, I suppose. I suspected that the trouble from the outlying villages was more than it appeared. The commander told me the Reavers had been wiped out long ago and they would never come into the district regardless. I should've pushed harder. If I had convinced them to send troops, not kids, none of this would have happened."

He glares at me. "I hope you understand what a good thing you have going here. The Headmistress hasn't made calls to sponsors in twenty years but now she has a dozen lined up for you. You have the best stylist in the city thanks to her. If you mess this up, Malachite, I swear I'll come to the arena and slap you alive again just so I can kill you myself."

I start to laugh. I can't help it. And once I start I can't stop. Tigellinus gives a snort of disgust.

"Get the hysterics out before the cameras are on you, I suppose. Happy Hunger Games, Malachite."

He gets up and leaves. I meditate on duty.


	7. Chapter 7

Orion is waiting outside my door when I come out for dinner. He's changed out of his red tunic and put on Capitol-provided clothes, same as I. Now he's viewing me with a look of equal curiosity and aggression.

"Are you going to be a problem, Malachite?" he asks without preamble.

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Problem how?"

He grunts. "Don't play coy, you're not from District One . All of the Gold Tags know what happened with you and the Reavers and it's obvious you're either trying to go out in a blaze of glory or you want to be a Victor so the government will let you go out and hunt the bastards down. Either way, makes no difference to me. I just need to know if you're in or out of the alliance. I can't keep the Ones and Fours in check _and_ be wondering if you're going to duck and bolt before the gong even sounds. So decide now. In or out."

I pause for a moment. I can't deny that the thought of going at it alone in the arena isn't appealing. No one else to deal with, no betrayals to anticipate, just me and a blade and the enemy. But that's exactly what Boudicca advised me not to do. And the Headmistress is the only reason I'm even here, and her advice was a gift. I'm not about to throw that away lightly. If she wants me to make friends, I suppose this is a good time to start.

"You think I'm going to let you soak up all the camera time and the sponsors, Baker?" I ask in what I hope is a jovial tone. "Not likely. Besides, you're pretty. I think I'll stick around for a while."

He gives me a grin. "You're not exactly hard on the eyes yourself, Malachite, although if you're looking for some extracurriculars you're digging in the wrong mine. Still, allies."

He holds out a hand and I shake it. "Don't expect me to sit and heel and roll over at your command, Baker. Do what you want with the alliance. But I'm not your lackey."

He shrugs. "District Two is leading the Pack this year, but I'm fine with a co-captain. We'll both call the shots, at least in the beginning. Now let's go. I'm starving but they won't let us eat until they've assigned teams."

I follow him down the hall through three cars before I realize that my new district partner just played me like a fiddle and I danced merrily to his tune.

Damn it.

"What do you mean, 'teams'" I ask as we walk through a car that seems to be entirely dedicated to liquor.

Orion glances behind him. "The Victors assigned personally to us. District Two has enough that we each have a team to help with different needs. You don't even have a mentor yet, do you?"

I give a grunt. It occurs to me that I'm already at a disadvantage. I can swing a sword but the protocol and behind-the-scenes aspect of the Games are a total mystery. Unlike my district partner who has been preparing himself for years, and no doubt the rest of my allies as well.

The observation car in the back of the train is rimmed with couches. Most of the District's Victors are here already, along with several attendants and a young man in a plain dark suit I don't recognize. Orion and I take seats opposite each other as an older man with a shock of white hair stands and peers down at us. I recognize him. Honorius Manchetti, the oldest of the three cousins who won the Games back in the Twenties. His cousins Virtus and Justus are here as well.

"Orion. Enobaria. Congratulations and Happy Hunger Games. There, the niceties have been observed. Let's get to work."

A ripple of laughter goes through the room and one woman mutters 'slave driver,' earning her an exasperated look from the old Victor.

"We've reviewed your files and assigned each of you a team that will serve as your support for the entirety of the Games. Keep in mind that even though you have an official mentor on paper, all members of your teams are Victors and you would be wise to listen to them.

"The official mentor is the head of your team. Orion, your mentor is obviously your sponsor from the Trials. I think you and Brutus will continue to work well together."

The huge man next to Orion holds out his fist and my district partner thumps it with his own. I restrain a pang. Pat used to that.

"Enobaria, you are obviously an unusual case, and there's no point in saying otherwise. Since you didn't go through the conventional trials, your mentor was less clear cut. I consulted with the Headmistress and with her approval, I'm assigning you to Dido. It's her first year mentoring, but she has nearly twenty-five years on the sponsor floor. You'll do well, I think."

The woman who teased Honorius earlier gets up and takes a seat by me. She's about forty with a dozen piercings in her ears and face, dark hair and skin, and a wicked look in her eyes.

"We've got this, girl," she says in a light tone. "We haven't had a female Victor since my day, so don't let me down here." There's an outraged noise from down the car. "You don't count, Lyme."

To be honest, the thought of having a mentor barely crossed my mind. My newly assigned mentor doesn't exactly fill me with confidence, but I suppose it's much better than nothing. We'll have to see.

Honorius is speaking again. "The next assignment is your second. Your second takes over your station in the Control Center when your mentor is sleeping, giving an interview, or needs to meet with sponsors face-to-face. Orion, your second will be Phoebus."

The Victor from two years ago, a young blond man, stands up with my district partner and they fiercely embrace. "Can't beat you up any more I suppose, Baker," laughs Phoebus. "Never thought I'd be watching out for your fat arse."

"Yes, well, I'm glad the assignment meets your approval," says Honorius coldly, but the corner of his mouth is twitching. "Enobaria, your second is Barty." A small, dark man with a cloth wrapped around his lower face gives me a short nod. "Yes, he's a mute, but don't underestimate him. His allies did in the arena, to their regret."

He looks around the room. "The last assignment is your public relations specialist. The PR specialist represents your teams to sponsors, setting up meetings, making calls, and taking whatever appointments they can so your mentor and second can stay in the Control Center as much as possible. Orion, your PR specialist was going to be Ares, but he's asked for a year off, so you're being assigned Antigone."

My new mentor grunts. "Good luck with Mother Tig. She'll be trying to change your diapers before the second day of training."

Indeed, Orion looks slightly crestfallen, but he quickly covers it up. An older woman next to Barty gives a grin. "Dido's just jealous because I can hold a civil conversation, and when I do the sponsors knife each other to be the first to throw their money at me."

"If we're through with the posturing," says Honorius. He looks at me. "I've decided to assign you Lyme as your PR specialist. The State knows why, but the Capitolians actually seem to like her company."

A huge woman with dozens of tattoos on her bare arms flicks Honorius an obscene gesture. "I guess the uglies find it amusing when an ugly calls them ugly," she laughs. She gives me a grunt. "Ignore the geezer. Mother Tig will be begging for coins in the streets after I work them over."

"I will be overseeing both teams, and assisting with general image and emergencies," says Honorius. He then gives a long suffering sigh. "Someone tell the Headmistress to clear my schedule for the nervous breakdown I deserve."

Orion gives me a look as I laugh along with the Victors. Maybe the Gold Tags have had comradery bred out of them early. No wonder the alliance has been falling apart year after year.

"We'll have nice, long, boring mentor sessions during your prep," says Dido as we all stand. "For now, just relax and let Auntie Dido take care of you."

"I don't need anyone taking care of me," I say. "Just get me a sword in the arena and stand clear."

She wags her finger at me. "Tsk tsk, that sort of attitude will get you nothing in the arena but a nice sweet knife in the back. Try and pretend you're grateful for this tremendous honor, at least where the Capitol can see. Which is everywhere, by the way."

Oh this is going to be a delight, I can tell.

Dinner is served in the dining car. I take a seat with Dido. Lyme sits on my other side. She's a youngish Victor who won when I was a kid, before I was in the Institute. Her Games weren't really remarkable, unlike the ones that followed.

The food is excellent, but my stomach churns at my second feast in as many days. I content myself with flatbread and soup and a couple of slices of plain ham. Although Dido insists I try the chocolate covered truffles and I have to resist trying five more in rapid succession.

Honorius turns to the young stranger in the dark suit. "What's the mood in the Capitol, Pan? What are they asking for this year?"

I give a start. Our escort is practically unrecognizable out of his goat fur and horns. He notices and gives me the shadow of wink before answering. His voice is different too, lower and much more clipped and professional.

"Quite frankly, they're bored. Oh, they love their new Victors," he gives Phoebus a quick nod, "But they're craving novelty again. The stoic warriors and the pretty girls won't be enough this year. Don't expect a nice all-terrain arena. And the press will be ruthless. They want scandal."

"They want their show," says Antigone. "We'll give them one."

The conversation goes on to people I've never heard of and politics that don't affect me. I turn back to my soup and allow myself another truffle.

"We'll be at the Capitol in an hour or so," says Honorius as the staff clears away the dishes. "But let's catch the reapings first."

The mood instantly becomes more serious. We file into the viewing room. Orion and I are given the center seats as our teams assemble around us.

"Watch each and every one," says Brutus. "I want you to tell us who your first target is at the Cornucopia at the end. Both of you. Let's see how good your instincts are."

Orion nods. I just watch the screen as Claudius Templesmith's voice fills the room and the reapings start in earnest.

There are no surprises from District One. The race to the stage is held and a beautiful girl and boy are soon raising their hands to the cheering crowd. A minute later I'm watching myself walk up to the stage in 2. It's an odd sensation, but I'm pleased with how I look. The commenters don't say anything beyond how District 2 has 'a strong showing' this year, although they do call me 'exotic-looking' and comment on Orion's size.

Orion watches District 3 much closer than I do. I don't see anything beyond the whimpering, skinny kids on the stage. District 4 is next. The boy called is thirteen, the girl is fifteen. Both are replaced by volunteers. The boy actually hugs his savior, a slender, good-looking eighteen-year-old in a half-unbuttoned shirt. His partner is a sour-looking girl with a pinched face. Something about her makes me dislike her almost immediately.

Brutus told us to watch each tribute carefully, but I soon find it difficult to distinguish between each shivering, emaciated kid. The girl from 6 seems half dead already. I remember an instructor mentioning that District 7 is often an underdog district so I try to pay them more attention, but neither seems remarkable.

A twelve-year-old girl from District 8 is called and the room goes completely silent. Claudius Templesmith is saying how exciting this must be for the textile district. The tall, thin girl on stage has thick black hair and wide black eyes. I notice the resemblance between the girl and the young woman standing behind her a second before they glance at each other. I'm not at all surprised when Claudius announces that the twelve-year-old, whose name is apparently Kerry, is the younger sister of Cecelia Rheys, the Victor from five years ago.

"You don't think it's because-" Phoebus starts to say. Barty makes a slashing motion with his hand and the younger Victor shuts up.

I try to pull my thoughts back to the reaping. The boy from 10 is a big eighteen-year-old with a mean look to him. Nothing else catches my attention and the reaping ends with a pair of ragged coal-miner kids from District 12 standing on the stage in shock.

"So," says Brutus as the television flickers off. "What's your first instinct?"

There's a second of silence. "The boy from Ten," I say.

"Why?" asks Dido.

I shrug. "He's stronger than the rest of the cannon fodder. The gamblers hoping for a big payoff will be drawn to him. He wasn't wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve on national television at least."

My mentor gives a nod of approval. "What about you, Baker?"

"The girl from Eight," he says immediately. "The Victor's sister. She's going to soak up the publicity in the pre-Games events regardless. I bet the Capitol would love to have a sibling team of Victors. She has no chance but people will eat up the sob story. So we cut off the narrative from the start. Take her down and let them focus on the ones who matter."

"Your instincts are good," says Honorius softly. "So as of now, Eight and Ten are your primary targets at the Cornucopia. We'll see where the others stand after training and scores." He looks out the window. "It looks like we've arrived. Take a look, you two."

Orion and I very deliberately do not run to the windows to gawp like schoolchildren. Still, as the train passes through the tunnel under the mountains and the Capitol comes into view like a glittering jewel box, I can't help but let my jaw drop a bit. Candy-colored buildings taller than the highest trees, silver domes, lights of every color, golden spires. The jewel of Panem. Where people are waiting to watch us die.

"We're the first to arrive," says Honorius. "Let's get you two prepped."

We pull into the train station a short while later. Crowds of screaming people are waiting outside the train. They shout our names, reach for us, wave autograph books and cameras at us. I keep my eyes straight ahead, my face blank.

"Don't react to the public yet," Dido told me before we left the train. "First impressions are very hard to overcome and we haven't settled on your image yet. Don't give them anything to work with."

So I make my way to the waiting limos with my jaw set and my fists clenched. The cars take us through the city, past parks, parties, stages with bands and dancers. The people here are like another species. One that never evolved a sense of personal space, as they continue to gawk and crowd.

Usually tributes are taken straight to remake when they arrive tomorrow, but 2 and 5 are close enough to pull in tonight. Pan ushers us into our suite. I barely have time to look around at the luxuries on display when Brutus orders the lounge cleared and starts barking out orders. In less than a minute Orion and I are stripped down and doing push-ups, crunches, squats, and leg lifts. Brutus is roaring out the reps and Dido is right there with him, in my face, telling me to man up and act like a tribute, not a District 3 desk jockey.

Problem is, my weeks long imprisonment and physical rehab means I haven't had a good workout in over a month. Neither can I collapse and allow Orion to outperform me on the first night. So I bite my tongue until the blood comes and carry one. After two hours I'm drenched in sweat, my muscles are screaming, and Dido is half-carrying me to the showers.

"Not bad, snowflake, not bad," she says as she dumps me in and presses several of the dozens of settings in the shower.

Soon I'm washed, dried, smelling slightly of lilacs, and cursing my mentor with every breath. My room is spacious but cold somehow, with large windows looking down into the Capitol. A device in the corner sends up food on voice command. I order a whole roasted chicken and scarf half of it down before collapsing in the feather bed, the greasy chicken falling between the sheets as I drift off from sheer exhaustion.

Dammit, they planned this.

I'm still grouchy when Pan wakes me up at the crack of dawn, even more so because he's back in character with that stupid costume and voice. The mentors are apparently already out doing their mentor thing, and Orion gets a bit of a lie-in because 'boys just don't need as much prep as girls.' The sun is not full risen when we reach the massive Remake Center and I'm escorted into a starkly clean room.

The ordeals of prep are common knowledge in the Institute. When we're fourteen we all have workshops where we stand naked in front of the instructors as they make comments. Most of us lose body shame very early. So it's no surprise when a woman dressed and dyed in gold points at a bin without speaking.

"I'm Poppaea, honey, I lead your prep. Don't you be a 'worryin' now. Honey we 'ah make you so _fine!"_

Another man and woman start circling me like vultures as I strip down. As soon as they see my back and the dozens of scars I earned in the Reaver camp they all shriek out loud.

"Girl what did y'all _do _to yourself?"

I'm not sure what to say since a full explanation would take hours and I'm not going into it with these freaks. Poppaea rushes to a phone on the wall and starts screaming about a total body buff, then hurries back to me muttering.

"Not ten minutes in and already behind schedule. In the tub honey, we 'ah got no time to be wasting!

So it begins. First one bath in a marble tub, followed by two more in various stinking chemicals. The preps scrub every inch of me, moaning every hangnail and blemish like a dead pet.

"Oh darling, your hair," says the prep apparently named Artemisia in a tone that suggests she's talking about a national tragedy. "You didn't hack it yourself, did you? We're just going to have to wait for your stylist. You must be so excited over the wonderful news!"

"Wonderful news?" I ask before I'm dunked under the water again.

"Yes!" she squeals when I resurface. "Oh sweetie, they didn't tell you? About your stylist?"

I shrug.

"Madame Lucia!" they all say in awed tones.

I shrug again. Artemisia looks scandalized.

"Well, you'll see soon enough. I can't wait to see what she'll do with your coloring."

And all of a sudden it's Maura grinning back at me, her nose in a stolen fashion magazine. I yelp and jump, spilling half the water out of the tub. I have to apologize profusely before they can get back to work.

Dido comes in when I'm being waxed. A strip comes off and she grins at my yelp, taking a bite out of an apple.

"Ah yes, the waxing. Brings back memories."

"They shouldn't be memories," Poppaea snaps. "Really, Ms. Castremi, if you just applied yourself to some basic self-care. Think about the example you're setting for your tribute."

Dido waves her away. "Victor privileges, never having to wax my nethers. Something to work for, strawberry."

I grimace. "Have you just come to enjoy this?"

"Nah, I came because I couldn't stand Lyme scowling at me through the sponsor meetings. She actually accused me of being abrasive. _Me!"_

"Shocking," I mutter as another strip comes off.

"Don't get smart with me, strawberry. I figured now is as good a time as any to start talking about your image."

I scowl as a strip comes off in a highly sensitive place. "What, do you expect me to grin and bat my eyes and giggle? I thought that was a game for the Ones."

"It is a game for the Ones, but that's not the only one to play. You don't need to get people to like you or lust after you, Enobaria, you need them to want you to win." She tosses away the core. "Us Twos usually go for the vicious, eager killing machine, but that gets old, and you heard what Pan said. Novelty. I was completely horseshit insane. They adored me."

"You gave Tigellinus half his grey hairs," I say. "And those are just the ones you can see. That's what he says at least."

She gives a bark of laughter. "I think we'll get along, strawberry," she says.

"Will you stop calling me that?"

"Whatever you want, moonbeam, I live to serve." She grins. "Can you do friendly?'"

I shrug. "Can't anyone do 'friendly'? It's not exactly hard."

"You'd be surprised. Anyway it's more than that. Can you make them want to befriend you? Want to see more of you? Can you convince a million people that they're your only confidant? Can you kill children for their entertainment and drop inside jokes that they'll believe only they understand?"

I think of what Boudicca said. About bonds. "I can," I say. "I mean, I will."

Dido nods. "Then start with the parade. A bit of edge is good, a bit of fire. Don't be soft. But give them some interaction."

"Oh she'll be wonderful!" says my male prep, a man named Nero with a stuffed bird artistically arranged in his hair. "She's been such a doll already!"

I haven't said a single word to this man. I give him a rigid grin and he pinches my cheek until Poppaea slaps his hand away.

Dido hangs around while my prep finishes up. My nails are polished, skin is buffed. My hair is dried but otherwise let alone. Finally I'm standing naked in front of a mirror. I hardly recognize the girl staring back. I had thought the scars I earned from the Reavers would be with me forever and suddenly I want them back. I earned them. But it's too late now and if they're the price of victory in the arena, I'll pay.

The door opens and the woman who must be my stylist glides in. She's a large, older woman in voluminous silver robes. She has silver hair, silver jewelry, a silver fan, and jeweled birds inlaid above her bosom. The preps stand back respectfully.

"Madame Lucia has come to prepare her tribute. Madame Lucia sincerely hopes her team has done a more adequate job than the last tribute they had in their wretched little fingers."

A man brings in a wheeled cart as Madame Lucia circles me, making comments.

"You're very…muscular for a woman."

"Thank…you?"

"It was a comment my dear, not a compliment. Please be silent until I am completed. Hmmm. Strong figure. High cheekbones, good. Stunning eyes. Yes, we can work with that. Calves are too large but we'll work around that. Hair. What _has_ been done with your hair, child?"

Poppaea steps forward. "Nothing, ma'am. We thought you would want to decide how to…remedy the situation."

"Madame Lucia is impressed that Poppaea has for once made an intelligent decision. Well. We'll have to use extensions for the parade. I'll think of something more…dramatic for the future. Well, what are you waiting for? Fetch!"

Artemisia hurries off. Dido gives a long chuckle.

"You always did know how to make the preps jump, Lucia."

"Long years of trial, my child."

"What are you planning for my little moonbeam this year? Shimmersilk? Wings? Going to set her on fire?"

Lucia sniffs. "I am a stylist, not a hot dog vendor. The very idea." My stylist suddenly looks resigned. "Unfortunately, the stylist must sometimes bow to the whims of the common rabble if she wants her tribute to catch attention. And this year, body honesty is all the rage. And so it seems I must oblige to the ever fickle weathervanes."

It takes a few moments for the implications to sink in. Being naked in front of my team is one thing. But the entire nation….

"Please tell me you're joking," I say.

"You're not sending her out there _naked_" says Dido at the same time.

Lucia snaps her fan open. "Madame Lucia is no fool, children. So she must improvise. Here." She goes to the cart and pulls out small flakes of stone. "Jade. And a bit of lapis lazuli for accent, I think. You'll be covered, child. More or less."

And so I am. My body is completely oiled and the flakes of gems are applied in twisting, bold patterns. Artemisia puts long black extensions in my hair, giving me a thick mane. Lucia applies some of the flakes herself, at other times she's snapping at the other preps. Dido feeds me bits of spicy food and juice as my costume takes shape.

"Well it's not Madame Lucia's proudest moment. Nudity is a standby for amateurs if you ask me. But I suppose it will do. Take a look at yourself, my child."

I do. I'm not so much clothed as I am revealingly scaled. I'm not entirely naked, at least. The flakes form patterns of color across my body, like some exotic, poisonous serpent. My hair is pulled back and crowned in a silver diadem. Silver paint accents my face. And the oil brings out the lines of my muscles. I look…I look….

"Actually, I like it," says Dido. "It's rather…striking."

I turn to my stylist. "Thank you," I say. "I think this is exactly how I want to face the others."

"Oh they'll all look ridiculous anyway, I've no doubt," says Lucia. "Now come, my child. It's time to meet the nation."


	8. Chapter 8

I understand what Madame Lucia meant by 'body honesty' as soon as I walk into the holding area beneath the Remake Center and catch a glimpse of the other tributes. Almost no one is clothed, expect for the twelve-year-old from 8 who's wearing a few wisps of silk. 4 is decked out in seashells, 6 has headlights in unfortunate places, the tributes from 7 and 9 are barely covered with applied leaves and bundles of grain, 11 is adorned in clusters of fruit and nothing else. And to round it all up, the thin, shivering tributes from 12 are completely nude except for a light covering of coal dust. I suddenly feel overdressed.

Orion is waiting for me at the chariot with his stylist. He's not been afforded any more modesty than the rest of us, covered in flakes of obsidian that do little to preserve his dignity.

"This is ridiculous," he growls to me under his breath as a call comes up and we step into the chariot. Madame Lucia bustles behind me, making a few finishing touches to my scales.

"Oh, I don't know," I say casually. "It certainly shows off your best assets. I bet plenty of old biddies will pay their stipend to see more of that cute little butt of yours. As long as you don't open your mouth."

For a moment I could swear I see a flush climbing up his neck, but I'm distracted as I sense eyes watching us. I look behind me, around the morose tributes from 3. The Fours are in their chariot, the boy chatting anxiously to his stylist. The girl is glaring right at Orion. Then she meets my eyes and her lip curls. I give her a sarcastic little wave, but she turns away without trying to hide the contempt from her face. Idiot.

The girl from the fishing district is forgotten as the doors are thrown open. Wild music is blaring from the street, half-drowned out by the screams of a hundred thousand people. District 1 moves into position and takes the lead. After a few moments, the horses pulling our chariot move forward and take us into the Avenue of the Tributes.

The roar, the sounds, the rush is intoxicating. Thousands of gaudily dressed people are screaming down at us, throwing flowers and confetti onto the streets. Our images are broadcast onto the massive screens above us. At first I just focus on keeping my balance in the chariot as Orion roars and flexes.

_Make them want to be your friend_ said Dido, and I try to pick out a few faces in the passing crowd. They're ecstatic, feral almost, and a sudden surge of disgust rises in me. Their faces are exactly like the Reavers as they crowded around the cage to watch Declan and Maura and Pat die. Better dressed, far wealthier, but still thousands of people gawping at naked children who will be murdering each other in a week. Boudicca, Tigellinus, the instructors, they constantly lectured us on the nobility, protection, and virtue of the Capitol, and I suddenly wonder if they're all completely insane.

_Kill them all, Baria._

But that's not why I'm here.

I see a young boy, no older than ten, raising his fist towards me. I meet his eyes and match his gesture and his face lights up. I find more people, men, women, children, meet their eyes, point at them, bare my teeth, whoop. Orion works the other side of the street and in front of me the girl from 1 is throwing kisses like they're going out of fashion. Still, there are so many people who have eyes only for me, and for the first time it fully hits me that I'm here, I'm doing this, I'm a tribute in the Hunger Games.

The parade ends at the City Circle. Our chariots assemble and President Snow gives a speech from the balcony of his mansion, surrounded by his confidents and concubines. I barely listen to any of it, letting my face fall into the respectfully vague expression I perfected at the Institute. Instead, I watch the coverage screens, where there already clear favorites among the tributes. The diamond-encrusted tributes from 1 get the most screen time, followed by Orion and myself, as well as the boys from 10 and 6, although this may be because they're among the few who aren't half-starved. And, of course, the Victor's sister from 8.

The ceremony ends and the chariots roll back down through the street into the Training Center. Stylists and escorts are waiting to accompany the tributes back to their quarters, most of whom leap out of their chariots looking as if they never want anyone to look at them again.

"Rather pathetic, aren't they?" says Orion with a bit of a sneer. "Oh, let's go frighten some of the cannon fodder."

"Brutus and Dido told us not to speak with anyone until training," I say as I watch the female tribute from District 3 burst into tears.

"I don't need to speak with anyone to scare the piss out of them," says Orion as he flexes his pecs.

My hand snakes out and rips a flake of obsidian from his chest. He doesn't wince. I add it to the gems around my collarbone. "Behave, Baker. If Dido sends us to bed without dessert, I'm blaming you."

This startles the first genuine smile I've seen from my district partner. I return it, reminding myself that it's all an act and it's okay because I'll probably be killing this man in a couple of weeks and I need to get his guard down. I see the boy from 4 start to move hesitantly in our direction and I turn away from him, motioning to Orion that we should head towards the lifts.

I'm not halfway across the floor when a bejeweled arm links itself in mine and I find myself arm-in-arm with the girl from District 1. The girls from the luxury district are always knock-outs, but this one is a true stunner, especially covered in diamond dust and nothing else.

"Don't look directly, but do you see that hostler? The one by the District 8 chariot? He's a reporter from _Cannon_ magazine, he'll have a secret camera in that obnoxious hat of his. Try to look cheerful. We'll probably make the front page."

The girl's grip is strong and unyielding and I can't break free without being obviously hostile, so I walk along in silence. The girl from One flips her golden hair and says innocuous things with a chiming laugh at the end of each sentence. I try to look interested but I can't manage more than a polite grimace. Beside me Orion ignores us both.

"Why are you doing this?" I hiss as we reach the lifts.

"Because the game is already in motion and I don't intend to be left behind," she murmurs with another laugh.

Her district partner is waiting at the lift. "Come on, Citrine. Luster and Jade are waiting."

"Boys," she says. "It's not a race, there's enough of me to go around, and there'll be more after the Games."

The boy from 1 glares at Orion and myself. "Luster told us no talking to the other tributes at the parade."

"Brutus said the same thing," Orion interjects.

"Well, I'm glad two of us aren't afraid to break the rules," says Citrine. The doors to the lift open and she follows her partner inside. "I suppose I'll be seeing you tomorrow." She gives me an exaggerated wink and the doors close behind them.

Orion raises an eyebrow. "What was that about?"

"Politics," I reply. "C'mon, let's not deprive our mentors of the opportunity to kill us before the gong sounds.

Our preps are waiting in our quarters to help remove the flakes of jade and obsidian. Brutus and Dido do indeed put us through another workout, although it's not nearly as strenuous as last night. All of the District 2 team are present, watching the parade recap as Orion and I struggle through another hundred lunges. From what I can hear Orion and I get good press, one reporter in particular praises my 'striking but non-conformist style.' But it's District 1 who receives the highest praise, and the girl from 8 is of course carefully compared to the debut of her sister five years ago.

The mentors carefully monitor our dinner, turning away the silent Avoxes when they offer confections like candied applies and cream-filled tarts. The steak is prime, though, the best 10 has to offer, slathered in roasted onions and asparagus sprouts. There's fresh summer salad and bread with nuts and raisins and cream of mushroom and snail soup. Orion is permitted to try a glass of wine near the end, though I decline, but both of us sample the blueberry cheesecake.

Afterwards we're taken aside for individual strategy sessions. Dido and I go out to the balcony where I immediately report my encounter with the girl from District 1. Dido's lip curls.

"Looks like Luster is trying to fill his roster. He has a lack of young, pretty Victors after the Fifties and the Ones are in good graces in the Capitol. Keep the Ones close, but keep an eye open."

"Am I still playing at making friends?" I ask.

Dido nods. "The Fours are in, Mags sent over the paperwork before the parade, although we don't officially sign until after scores are given. The Ones are playing coy, as usual, so stay on good terms as much as you can. I don't want any wild cards this early in the Game."

"I think it's too late for that," I say, remembering all the close-ups of the girl from 8 on the recaps.

Dido waves her hand. "Kerry Rheys is irrelevant. She may make an effort but she isn't her sister. But tomorrow there are a few individuals you need to keep an eye on. The tributes from Three, for example."

I snort in disbelief and Dido raises an eyebrow. "The Three tributes are cannon-fodder ninety percent of the time, but when they're good, they're almost unstoppable. Orion knows what to look for and he'll be watching as well. He's also scoping out the tributes from Nine. I want you on the Sevens and the boy from Ten. Everywhere they go, everything they do, who they sit with at lunch, what stations they avoid, everything."

"Is there anything else?" I ask, the exhaustion of the day getting to me. "Dance a tango? Count all the pebbles in the mountains? Sleep with the president's son?"

Dido smacks my shoulder. "Don't get fresh with me, Sunbeam, I've been coming here since you were a twitch in Daddy's crotch." She reaches out and tears off a small flake of jade the preps missed. "You did well today. Lyme hasn't been off the phone with the sponsors. Now get out of here you worthless thing."

I don't sleep nearly as well as I did last night. The light of dawn comes far too soon as I drag myself into the shower.

Madame Lucia is at breakfast the next morning with a jade colored tunic and trousers that she hands over to me. Orion is similarly dressed all in black, reminiscent of our parade costumes. We eat a hardy breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, and griddle cakes and then Pan appears in character to escort us down to the training gymnasium. I notice the magazine in his hands. The girl from 1 and I are on the front cover, just as she predicted.

Unlike the rest of the Capitol, the training gymnasium isn't that impressive. A result of growing up in the Institute I suppose. The other tributes are gawping, except for the Ones who appear bored by it all. The tributes from 11 are the last to arrive and we all assemble around the head trainer, a dark woman named Atala. Orion and I step back, scoping out the cannon fodder as Atala repeats the information we already know about the training stations, the length of training, and the rules against fighting with the other tributes.

We're dismissed and the tributes scatter in ones and twos to build fires and crude shelters and sniffle by the knot-tying station. Except for the boy and girl from District 4, who make their way directly towards us. The boy is lean and muscled, with a long sharp nose and double-pierced ears half hidden by copper hair. The girl is taller than he is, as broad in the shoulders, her sandy hair pulled back so we can get a good look at the distaste that never seems to leave her face. Oh, this is going to be fun.

"I'm Tiller," the boy says as he shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to take an intimidating pose. "This is-"

"Hera," his partner interrupts. Her eyes sweep over us. "Not so big once you're out of costume, I see."

"Hera," the boy growls. She ignores him. "Our mentors have sent over the forms. Allies, right?"

I glance at Orion. He gives a nod. "You can sit with us at lunch," I say. "From there, we'll see."

"How sweet. It's like play school all over again." The boy and girl from 1 have joined us. Their simple clothes only accent their natural good-looks. "I'm Mercury," says the boy. "You've met Citrine."

Citrine smiles at me. I return it, making sure the Fours see.

"Great. Now that the formalities are done, let's get to work," says Orion. "We'll start with general weapons, see where we're strong, get some pointers for the unfamiliar ones like archery."

"Excuse me?" says Mercury as he steps up to meet Orion's eyes. He's shorter than my district partner, but there's an unmistakable air of grace and power to him. "I don't remember anyone putting you in charge of all of us, Two."

"Oh, my mistake, where are my manners?" Orion puts his hand on my shoulder. "This is Enobaria. You can defer to her as well."

Citrine's eyes are dancing with amusement, Hera looks ready to spit, and Mercury's lip curls. "Let's make this clear. I don't take orders from quarry rats."

"Boys, boys," I say as I step between them. "If you want to squabble over the size of your spears, go ahead and sort it out. The girls will go do something useful until you release all this pent-up testosterone. Citrine, Hera? I feel like some wall climbing."

This time it's me who takes Citrine's arm. I offer my other to Hera, who looks at it like it's from a cadaver. "I'll be at edible plants," she says before she stalks off.

I shrug. "Have fun, boys. We'll see you at lunch." As I pass Mercury, I whisper. "He favors his left side." The boy from 1 gives me a startled look, but I sweep past him with Citrine on my arm.

The girl from 1 is giving me a curious look. I shrug again. "It's not going to help him. Orion knows how to compensate for his weaknesses." She laughs and strips off her tunic as we reach the wall.

The wall climbing exercise is one of the most refreshing moments I've had in weeks. No politics, no danger, just me and wall and the sweet aches in my muscles. It doesn't take long for me to realize that my new ally is not just beautiful, she's physically strong as well. Citrine reaches the top first, but not by much. We take a moment for a breather at the top and watch the activity in the gym.

"Looks like the boys are still going at it," says Citrine. I grin as I watch Mercury and Orion at the archery station firing arrow after arrow at the dummies.

"I'm glad I got you here alone," she continues as she brushes her hair out of her eyes. "I needed to talk to you anyway."

I nod. "You weren't just posing for the cameras last night."

"Smart girl. Let me tell you something. Mercury is the best swordsman I've ever seen. He's also a bit of a loner. In a straight one-on-one fight, I doubt any of us will be able to take him."

"I see," I say. "So you want my help taking him down?"

"When the time comes. But more than that. Are you familiar with watch partners?"

I shake my head. Citrine grimaces.

"A watch partner watches your back in the arena. They share your food and supplies. They rotate sleep shifts so someone is always watching your back. They work together to bring it to the end before they finish it. It diminishes the chance for early betrayals."

"That's what you're looking for, huh? Why me? Why not your district partner if he's such a good fighter?"

She waves her hand impatiently. "I told you, he's too good in a fair fight. I'm not here for second place. Besides, district partners already have a bond, but unless we make alliances outside of district ties we'll fall apart early. It happens again and again. And obviously Four isn't anything special. Hera is going to be a nightmare."

"What about Orion?" I say. "Girls from your district have a….tradition of getting close to the boys from mine."

She laughs. "Maybe I'd consider it, but dear Orion is plainly not interested in the charms of my sex." She laughs louder at my puzzled look and points to the floor. "Open your eyes, Enobaria."

The boys are still at the archery station, but now Orion is giving pointers to Tiller, adjusting his grip on the bow while his hand lingers at the small of his back and oh.

I join Citrine's laughter, making a mental note that the girl from 1 is smart. Too smart, maybe.

"So, what would I gain in having you as a watch partner?" I ask. "Besides insight on who swings which way?"

She gives me a feral grin. "Access to my sponsors, publicity, and the best glaive fighter in District One at your side."

I don't even need to think about it. "Fair deal, partner," I say. "Now let's get down before the vertigo hits."

Citrine and I head over to the wrestling station, then throw spears for a while. I scan the gym as the trainers reset the dummies, keeping my eye on the tributes Dido pointed out to me. Hera is still resolutely memorizing edible plants. The tributes from 3 are learning how to make snares, both of them looking miserable. The tributes from 7 spend a half-hour at every survival station and an hour at wrestling. I notice they've avoided axes. The boy from 10 splits his time between camouflage and lifting weights with his shirt off. And little Kerry ignores everyone in favor of chatting with Atala at the obstacle course.

Citrine and I head to the medical station when our arms need a break. I know how to apply bandages and set broken limbs, but more specific medical training is beyond me. I'm learning how to clean and stitch an open gash when Citrine nudges me and nods towards the knife throwing station.

Three of the outer district girls are gathered there, watching a boy who's clearly showing off for them. I recognize him as the boy from 6, the one who at least looked well-fed. At a closer glance he's actually not bad looking at all, and he's acutely aware of the admiring gazes of his audience. A knife leaves his hand and hits the kill zone of a dummy thirty feet away.

"He's not bad," says Citrine.

I shrug. "He flourishes too much. Any decent knife fighter will bring him down first. And he's sort of stupid, letting us all see his skill set." A second knife embeds itself in the kill zone. "But yes, not bad at all."

I make a mental note to keep watching the boy from 6 when I realize I'm being watched myself. The Gamemakers are assembled in their box, eating and drinking and taking notes. Some of them are watching me. More than a few. I shake my head and get back to my stitching.

By the time lunch rolls around, Mercury and Orion seem to have settled their alpha issues. Orion still gives orders, but as long has he doesn't give them directly to Mercury, the boy from 1 doesn't take offense. Indeed, lunch is a rowdy affair, especially when Mercury starts to do Victor impressions, a demonstration that was apparently in high demand back in 1. His impression of Lyme stalking around is eerily accurate, his impersonation of Brutus's bellow is on point, and his recreation of Haymitch Abernathy stumbling around asking who took his trousers leaves us all in stitches.

Well, all but Hera, who picks at her food while giving us occasional glares. I make the mistake of asking her to pass me the butter and she looks like I demanded she turn over her firstborn child.

"Get it yourself, Two! You've got legs and no one is going to baby you in the arena!"

"Get a grip, Hera," mutters Tiller. I wave it off and smile sweetly as I stand and retrieve the butter dish. I give Orion a look as I sit and his expression confirms that he knows we have a problem too.

We spend the afternoon at the sword fighting station. All of us have various levels of competency in the weapon. Citrine is right about Mercury. He's very good and he doesn't try and hide it. But his style is typical of the Ones, elegant and refined, but potent mostly in its unfamiliarity. I'm confident that I'm just as good in my own way. I stick to basic pattern dances, demonstrating my competency but not displaying my full talent. Not yet.

After a couple of hours Orion and Mercury are starting to get snippy again and I see my chance. "Why don't you boys go do some manly wrestling or weight-lifting until you're too exhausted to bicker? Citrine can be your cheerleader. Hera and I will hang out at archery. First one to collapse has to watch the supplies for the first hunt."

Hera gives me that sour look. "I'll be at the medical station."

"Oh no, I don't think so." I'm impressed with how quickly Orion catches on. "We'll go to medical together tomorrow. You stay with Enobaria."

Hera has no choice but to stalk over to the archery station with me. She snatches up the first bow she sees and starts loosing arrows. I pick mine more carefully. Bows are rare in the Games, tributes who can use them are even rarer, and it's not a weapon I'm overly familiar with. My first shot goes long. I watch the trainer scamper to retrieve it.

"You have a problem with me," I say as I choose another arrow. It's not a question. "With all of us. You know, you're not playing this very smart. It's sort of stupid to make enemies of your allies before the Games."

Hera lets an arrow fly into the dummy's gut. "Doesn't matter. I'm not here to make friends, in case you hadn't noticed. But no way are your mentors going to give up having Mags's connections in the sponsor ring. "

"Won't help you if we gut you the first night," I say as I release another arrow. This one barely misses.

"That's what I have Tiller for," says Hera, not looking at me.

"Tiller seems less and less inclined to stick by you, honestly," I say in conversational tones. "He's been jumping to do everything Orion tells him, in case you hadn't noticed."

The look on Hera's face is ugly. "He's a glory hound, no more than you can expect." She seems to immediately realize that she's said too much, but it's too late to take it back.

"Glory hound?" I ask. "So you have a problem with glory hounds. I see. Well that's funny. Because I remember him volunteering for the Games in the reaping. But strangely enough, I seem to remember you doing the exact same thing."

Hera throws down her empty quiver. "I volunteered so a fifteen year old girl with diabetes wouldn't have to go to a death sentence," she snarls. "That's what we do in Four. Most of us, anyway." She shoots a look towards where the boys are wrestling. "Don't you dare compare me to people like him. People like you. You don't know anything about why I'm here."

I hold up my hand and count off my fingers. "Three guesses. Your pride. Your district. Your family. At least two, and probably all three." She doesn't say anything. I laugh. "Well, jokes on you, Four. Because you don't know anything about me either, but it's not going to save you when the time comes."

She shrugs. "If I die, I die,"

A chill runs down my spine as I aim another arrow.

"Finally, you get something right," I say. The arrow goes halfway through the dummy's throat.

* * *

**AN: Thanks as always for the feedback and reviews. Sorry this was a little long in coming. Memorial Day is always a busy time for me.**


	9. Chapter 9

I march out of the elevator into the District 2 suite, pulling off my sweaty tunic and tossing it aside. Orion is right behind me but I have eyes only for my mentors. Honorius, Brutus, and Dido are seated at the table going over sponsorship papers. Dido glances up at me and frowns as she sees the dark look on my face.

"Who spit in your oatmeal, Dewdrop?" she asks.

I stalk up to the table and cross my arms. "I want Hera from District Four out of the alliance. She goes or I do."

Orion and Dido both make noises of protest. Brutus gives a surprised huff. Honorius holds up a finger and silences them all.

"Sit," he says as he pulls out a chair. "Explain."

I sit. "After the reaping, the Headmistress – Boudicca – told me success depended on keeping the pack together and friendly, at least in the beginning. Hera is antagonistic, a loner, and a loose cannon. She's a danger to the coherency of the alliance and she needs to go."

Dido gives an exasperated snort. "So you can't win over one grumpy kid? Did you try, oh I don't know, being friendly? Praise her skills, make jokes, kiss her full on the lips for all I care. You kick her out now, the pack is one short and you've made one more trained enemy as soon as the cannon sounds."

Honorius frowns. "Mags Baxter-Dupont's influence has often been essential to the survival of the alliance. Cutting this girl off risks sponsors, publicity, airtime. And Mags and I have been partners for four decades now. You'd be putting me in a very bad position, one I'm not willing to risk based on your inability to play nice on the playground."

I rub my eyes, trying to put together my thoughts. "It's more than not getting along. I have a bad feeling. Just…instinct. We were talking about the reapings, and she accused me of volunteering for glory when she volunteered to save a life. And then she said 'If I die, then I die,' or something like that. Like she's making a statement. Or she just doesn't care. I just…I have a really bad feeling, okay? I'll try again tomorrow if that's what you want but-"

"No." Honorius's voice is sharp, tinged with something almost like fear. He looks at Dido, who's suddenly more serious than I've seen her.

Brutus gives a low whistle. "Martyr complex," he grunts.

"Your talent for stating the obvious is continually stunning, Teddy Bear," says Dido as she throws a balled-up napkin at him. She absently passes me a chocolate-covered strawberry. "Well, well. This changes things."

Honorius commands my full attention. "You are absolutely, entirely sure about this? I need more than just instinct at this point."

My mouth is full of chocolate and strawberry. I nearly choke as I swallow it and wipe a dribble of juice from my chin. The legendary Victor is still staring at me. "Yes sir," I say with what I hope is confidence. "I wouldn't have made the demand if I wasn't sure."

"Boy," says Brutus. "What do you think?"

I look back to the foot of the table where Orion is looming with his arms crossed. He gives me a long look that I match. Long seconds pass.

"I trust Malachite's judgement. The girl from Four goes."

Brutus frowns. "Do you think her district partner will stick around? District loyalty can be a queer thing with the Fours."

Orion grunts. "I think this is a good way to find out how deep those loyalties go before the Games."

Honorius flips through the papers until he pulls out a very formal looking form stamped with seals and lined with signatures. He gives an almost wistful sigh as he tears it in two.

"There. It's done. You have a new enemy and I betrayed a tradition that's as old as I am. Now if you'll excuse me, I have damage control to attend to."

"Might want to wait for me," says a low, husky voice as the elevator doors close with a hiss. Lyme walks up to the table. She's a bit unsteady on her feet, but her eyes are clear and serious. "We have another problem. Seven and Nine have made a formal alliance. All four of them."

Honorius glares at her as he sniffs the scent of stale alcohol that's wafting off her. "And how exactly did you come by this information?"

Lyme shrugs. "Connor Murphy has a thing for women with tats and can't hold his whiskey as well as I can." Dido starts making retching sounds, which Lyme ignores. "At any rate, none of their tributes have distinguished themselves, but together…"

"They're an underdog alliance, and the Capitol loves their underdogs. And if the girl from Four teams up with them…" Honorius takes the bottle Brutus is offering and takes a swig. "We're going to have to play against this. Now. And you two," he jerks his head towards Orion and me. "Your new targets are Seven and Nine and this Hera girl. Before anyone else in the bloodbath, you take them all down. Understand?"

We nod.

"Assemble the team. Everyone," Honorius says to Lyme. "And for Snow's sake, take a shower and drink a cleansing tonic, I'm about to pass out from the fumes."

Lyme drops a cheerful obscenity and marches off. Dido hands me another strawberry.

"So we're up five threats and down one ally, Moonbeam," she says. She shakes her head. "It was so much easier when I was a tribute. Just play crazy and watch them cheer. I hope you can find someone from the cannon fodder to fill in, or you lot are in legit trouble."

"Don't worry, mentor dearest," I say as I lick a bit of chocolate off the offered strawberry. "I think I have someone in mind."

* * *

The boy from District 6 is at the knife-throwing station. Once again, two outer district girls are watching him with big, admiring eyes. Perhaps they're hoping for an alliance, a bit of protection, maybe some game if he can hit a moving target as well as a dummy. Shame they're going to be disappointed.

"Follow my lead," I say to Citrine. The two of us have stuck together all morning, the boys are throwing spears again, and Hera is as usual off on her own.

I walk over to the station and select a long, cruelly curved knife. Citrine takes two tiny blades as long and thin as her finger. The out district girls give us terrified looks and make themselves scarce. The boy sends a knife into the target dummy's heart then looks around only to realize he has a new audience.

"Not bad, Six," I say. I throw the knife casually. It embeds itself in the eye socket. "Try to get the other one."

The boy swallows. I looked at his tribute profile last night. He's seventeen and weighs as much as a skinny Career would, but he seems to shrink in front of us. He takes a deep breath and throws another knife. It hits the dummy's head wrong side up, clattering to the floor.

"Relax," I say with a friendly smile. "You stop breathing right before you throw. Breathe through it. It's all one motion."

"And point your toe out," adds Citrine. "No, the other one. Adjust your shoulders like this." She stands behind him and guides his shoulders, letting her breasts briefly touch his back. I see beads of sweat break out on the back of his neck. "Good. Now try again."

The next knife ends up squarely in the other eye. Citrine smiles and adds one of hers in the dummy's throat.

"Hmmm," she says. "Not my best work, and I've been doing this since I was eight. Wish I had your eye, Six."

The boy mutters a brief thank you before collecting a couple more knives.

"What's your name, Six?" I ask after he makes two decent throws.

"Rob," he says without meeting my eye.

Citrine frowns. "You're a thief?"

The boy looks up, startled. "No! Who said that?"

"Are your parents thieves?" I ask.

"No, they work in the steel plant!"

"Then why'd they name you 'Rob' if you don't rob anything?"

"It doesn't mean I'm a robber! I'm just…Rob."

I look at Citrine. "The outer districts are so weird," I say. She nods fervently.

I move a little closer. "So we've been watching you, Rob. Citrine and I. At first, we were just deciding who would take you down at the Cornucopia." The boy goes a delicate shade of green. "Take it as a compliment. But Citrine and I have a little group of like-minded friends, and we're about to find ourselves one short. We thought you might be a good addition to our little pack."

Now his neck is flushing red. I try not to giggle.

"Oh he is just precious," says Citrine with a chuckle. "Enobaria, I want to keep this one."

"Learn to share, One," I say with a wink. "So what to do you say, Rob? Allies?"

He looks between us. I can tell the combination of the offer and his very male hormones, obviously heightened in his last days alive, are getting to him. "My mentor told me not to talk to you and not to call attention to myself," he manages to stammer.

"And that was very wise of him," says Citrine with an understanding nod. "And it's not like he could have planned for this. Six hasn't allied with One or Two since…Enobaria?"

"Since never," I say.

"Right."

"Citrine may find you adorable, Rob, but more importantly, you're good at what you do. We want you with us. Not against us, not at first. Think it over," I say generously. "There's a spot open for you at the lunch table. You're free to join us if you decide you want to ally with the _real _players."

"Yeah…um. Yeah ok. Sure. I mean, that would be-"

"Perfect." Citrine actually strokes his bicep. I settle for a good slap on the back. Citrine and I link arms and leave the very flustered, very clearly aroused boy from 6 to play with his knives.

"You think we convinced him?" whispers Citrine as we head to the obstacle course.

"Oh, I think we got him interested enough," I snigger. From across the room, I see Hera sneering. I ignore her.

Citrine and I don't speak much for the rest of the morning, instead focusing on a few of the survival stations. While the Careers almost always control the bulk of the supplies at the beginning of the Games, knowing how to build a shelter or what berries are edible have saved more than one desperate Career after the pack splits. And I don't intend to take any chances. As I work, I feel the eyes of the Gamemakers on me. I'm sure of it now; they're watching me more closely, more obviously than the other tributes, even Orion and Citrine. I don't like the sense of being marked but there's absolutely nothing I can do about it now.

Lunch comes as Citrine and I finish picking through edible insects. We shovel lamb stew with plums, apparently a hallmark of Capitol cuisine, onto our plates and take seats at our chosen table. Once again, the outer districts spread themselves out, not making eye contact with anyone. I'm not under the impression that any of them deserve what's coming to them, but I can't help but think that they're all perversely pathetic. I think of some of the outer district Victors I've seen footage of; Beetee and Wiress, Blight and Connor, Cora, Nolan, Roan. I'm fairly certain none of them dribbled snot and tears into their fruit salad.

There's one exception. Rob fills up his plate, shooting nervous glances towards our table. I pretend to be engrossed in a conversation about hair products with Citrine as I watch him out of the corner of my eye. Finally he snags a last roll, walks over to our table, and sets his plate down next to Orion.

"What in Snow's name-" begins Mercury, but I give a significant cough and he cuts himself off. Tiller continues to look entirely baffled, but I can see Mercury's mind working and his eyes widen slightly. It's good to know the boy from 1 isn't completely stupid. Orion meanwhile scoots over and snatches away Rob's roll, replacing it with a slice of cheesecake. In moments Rob and my district partner are talking about sports and models and male stuff.

Hera stalks up out of nowhere a minute later. I swing my leg up onto the bench, spreading out to take up as much room as I can.

"No room here, sorry Four." I say.

"What-" begins Tiller but soon all Careers are spreading out, giving Hera defiant, mocking looks.

Her face turns an interesting shade of puce. "We have an arrangement, District Two. And One. A signed arrangement."

"Yeah, about that," I continue. "It's been…rescinded. My mentors are probably talking to Mags right now." Hera's face goes white faster than a Twelve at the Cornucopia. "I did try to warn you," I say in a softer voice.

"Wait," splutters Tiller. "You can't just…we agreed…it's traditional."

"Traditions change," growl Orion.

"Out with the old, in with the better," says Citrine with a smile in Rob's direction.

Hera is as still as a statue. Her head finally moves slowly in Tiller's direction. "Are you joining me?" she asks stiffly.

"I can't…Hera. Guys, really?" Tiller goes on with a desperate look down the table.

I put a friendly hand on his arm. I have to play this exactly right. "District loyalty is important, Till," I say in a gentle tone. "And we understand if you have to go. But think for a moment. Does she really deserve your loyalty? We've stuck by you in training. We're all friends here, right? What has Hera done besides abandon you as soon as Atala dismissed us? Oh, except to sneer at you for being a glory hound."

I can see by the faint hurt and anger in Tiller's eyes that Hera hadn't done this in her district partner's hearing.

"Till, I didn't mean it like that," Hera begins. I flick my eyes to Orion, who immediately puts a hand on Tiller's shoulder. I vaguely register that we're starting to work together as partners more and more easily.

"I'm staying," says Tiller finally. "Hera….I'll see you back in the apartment."

Hera takes a deep breath. "Very well. You've clearly all made your choice. I hope Davy Jones has a dark, cold locker waiting for each of you. And Tiller," she says as her partner refuses to meet her eyes. "Safe voyage."

"Safe voyage," he says stiffly. Hera leaves without another word to join District 7, who eye her warily and whisper amongst themselves.

"Whew," says Citrine as she mimes wiping sweat off her face. "Glad that's over with."

"Anyone else have a problem with the new arrangement?" growls Orion, looking darkly at the boy from 1.

Mercury shrugs. "Long as I'm not the one changing the baby Six's diaper, I think we're well out of it."

"You might be," mutters Tiller. "She's not sleeping in the room next to you."

"Personally, from what I've heard, I'd be more worried about Mags," I say dryly.

This earns a ripple of nervous laughter and we return to our lunch. I shovel spoons of lamb stew into my mouth. It tastes like triumph.

After lunch the Career pack takes our newest ally to the wrestling station. We strip down to the basics and oil up, taking our turns trying to pin the trainers as the others hoot and holler and cheer. Rob steps onto the mat with a nervous look and an awkward stance. The trainer clearly believes he's facing another incompetent outlier and no one is more surprised when Rob flips him over his hip and slams him to the ground. I watch as the trainer gets up and corrects Rob's stance, showing him a few new holds and grips. He's a natural. I bet he could even give me a decent challenge.

Orion is next to me, naked except for his underwear, his bulging muscles glistening with oil. "How'd a kid from Six learn to scrap around like a quarry brawler?" he whispers to me.

I think of the footage I've seen from District 6. The stinking refineries, blown out windows, tenement buildings stacked high into the yellow skies. And of course the common knowledge that 6 is run by drug gangs that are ignored by the Peacekeepers so long as they get their cut and don't disrupt production.

"Hard lessons in a hard place," I say.

Orion's eyes narrow as Rob struggles to keep his footing while Citrine whoops out encouragement. "He seems like a good kid. He watches hoverball. The arena will eat him alive."

I follow my district partner's line of sight. "Orion," I say cheerfully. "Stop staring at Rob's butt."

It's almost amusing how quickly his head jerks up. "I wasn't – I don't – Malachite!"

I pat his shoulder. "Don't get me wrong. It's a very nice butt. You're just being…obvious."

There's a definite flush to Orion's cheeks, which amuses me. I'm also a bit intrigued. Infatuations aren't unheard of in the arena, although they end disastrously more often than not. Orion's sudden bashfulness might be 'precious' as Citrine would say, and Rob may indeed be a good kid, but if I can play them off each other I certainly will. Only one of us is coming back in the end.

The second day of training ends a few hours later and the exhausted tributes slug their way over to the elevators. Orion and I stop for a quick word with one of the sword trainers, a former cadet from District 2 himself who promises to send some of his Capitol contacts our way. When we leave there are only two other tributes left, the tall, lanky boy and perpetually sniveling girl from District 3.

Orion gives me a begging look. I roll my eyes.

"Go ahead meathead, get your kicks in while you can," I say.

Both of us are laughing as the doors open to our suite. The sour smell of urine follows us as we leave the District 3 tributes behind. I thought it would be the girl who cracked, but it only took half a minute for Orion to bully the 3 boy into wetting himself. We continue to snicker as our mentors demand a full recounting of the day. Dido gives us both congratulatory strawberries as she fills out another official paper and hurries off to the lifts. She returns with an amusing tale about the look on the face of the mentor from District 6, a fifty-year-old man who miraculously hasn't succumbed to morphling addiction, when she approached him with the alliance papers.

"I caught a glimpse of your new teammate as well," she says. "Good choice. Another strawberry for each of you."

"You sure know how to thrill a girl," I reply as I snitch three more strawberries and toss one to Orion.

* * *

"Enobaria Malachite!"

The Gamemakers call me in for my private session from lunch the next day. Citrine, Mercury, and Orion are already gone. Rob gives me quick thumbs up. The tributes who flocked around him before he joined the pack are now avoiding him like the plague. I give him a grin.

"Remember what I told you, Six," I say as I turn and walk into the gymnasium.

The Gamemakers are assembled in their balcony, watching me with keen glares. The food and wine arranged around them are ignored. They're watching me, waiting for me. I have a show to put on.

"_Of course they've been watching you," said Dido last night. "You alone of all the tributes already have a reputation to live up to. They know what happened out in the wilderness. At least what they've been cleared to know. The friendly, competitive player is fine for the general public, for now. Not for the Gamemakers. They want the Reaver village. They want the animal. They want blood."_

So that's what I give them.

First, the knife-fighting instructor, down with a lump swelling on her temple. Then hand-to-hand combat, two on one. All three of us leave bloody and bruised. And finally, the man from District 2 at the sword-fighting station, the man who promised us contacts and made jokes about Tigellinus retiring with us. He screams on the floor as I put my foot on his shattered forearm, right where the bone is sticking out. I increase pressure, watching the Gamemakers closely.

The Head Gamemaker, a thin, dark man with a twisted lip, gives a slow nod. "Thank you Miss Malachite, I think that shall do. You're dismissed."

I give a short bow and leave.

They give me an eleven.

Dido gives a whoop when the score flashes on the screen. We're all assembled in the lounge. Barty gives my shoulders a squeeze and Pan mutters 'excellent, excellent' under his breath. Orion gives me an indulgent look. His own eleven was shown just seconds ago. We're the first double elevens in more than thirty years. All the phones start ringing before Caesar gets to District 3.

"Congratulations," Orion says with a dark smile. I return it.

No one else matches our score, although both Citrine and Mercury secure a respectable ten, and Tiller manages an eight while Hera receives a nine. The rest of the cannon fodder fly by with predictable fours and fives and sixes. Rob clearly took my advice and didn't hold back, earning himself a seven. Kerry from District 8 also receives a seven, though I suspect this is nothing more than to put a target on her back. The boy from 10 gets an eight.

The mentors give us a night off from the grueling nightly workout routine. I rather wish they hadn't as I'm left to toss and turn in my bed, too wired up to sleep. I finally give up and go out into the kitchen, fixing myself a cup of hot chocolate. I take it out onto the balcony and let the cool summer breeze set my hair dancing.

The Capitol gleams below me, a symphony of color and lights and music. Beyond the golden towers I see the dark outlines of the mountains, illuminated in the light pollution. High above them, the few stars that can be seen in the city twinkle. I suddenly find myself thinking of the Reavers, and especially the Speaker. Where is he now? What happened when he returned to find his village burned and strewn with the bodies of his people? Have the Peacekeepers caught him, sent him down into the bowels of the Mountain Fortress where his every secret will be tortured out of him? Or is he out there in the wilderness still, gazing up at the same stars, wondering when the little girl from District 2 is going to track him down and tear him apart slowly, oh so slowly….

"Couldn't sleep either, huh?" comes the voice behind me.

I don't turn as Orion joins me on the balcony, his eyes flickering to the sky above.

"Just think, in three days we'll be seeing those stars from the arena," he says.

I grunt.

He smirks. "You ready for it, Malachite?"

Suddenly I'm back in the burning longhouse, back in the Cage, tied to the stake with Maura and Pat and Declan chained beside me. "You bet your life I am," I hiss.

Orion has his own mug and he takes a sip of whatever's inside. "Course you are. Big, bad Enobaria Malachite, ready to burn the world."

It suddenly occurs to me that Orion would have heard all the rumors that flew around the Institute in the days after I was rescued. I'm suddenly annoyed that he has this advantage, that he knows something, anything about me.

"And what about you, Baker?" I ask. "What brought you to the Sixty-Second Hunger Games to kill kids on national television? The fame? Wealth? A boy back home you need to impress?"

Orion meets my eyes and gives a nonchalant shrug. "Truthfully, Malachite? Boredom."

I sneer. "Forget it," I say as I stalk back towards the suite.

"What do you want?" he says to my back. "My long sob story of personal tragedy and my quest for a greater cause? Well I'm sorry, I don't have one."

I stop, turn back slowly. Take a sip of my hot chocolate. It's getting cold. "Boredom?"

He shrugs again. "I'm from the southern quarries. Limestone. Good family, good work. Always knew I was a bit different though." His eyes are far away. "Read every book I could get my hands on. Science, geology, math, literature, I ate it all up at school. I was the best. There was always more to learn and I had to learn it. My teachers even sent away to the Capitol for me for books approved for district consumption." His voice has a sour tone to it now.

"But it wasn't just books. I was strong. I was good-looking. I excelled at sports. I was doing advanced geometry when I was nine from an old textbook the university here donated. And I was going out of my mind. Because nothing was a challenge anymore and there's only one place in Two that will drive a man to his full potential."

I nod. "The Institute."

"The Institute. The Institute was like paradise. They had a library. They had trainers and teachers and Victors. And I was happy. For a while." Orion gives a deep sigh. "After graduation, what was there left for me? Work a shop? Join the Peacekeepers? Yeah, that's a life. Get shipped off to District Ten or Eleven or Twelve to beat sewer rats into their own shit. Or, if I'm lucky, come the Capitol and help little old ladies and their designer dogs across the streets. No. That wasn't my life. There are brilliant, exceptional people born all over the districts. And there's no place for people like us in this Panem."

I'm startled to hear this sort of talk from my district partner. It almost borders on treason. Not that I can exactly take a moral stance, given my growing levels of disgust at the excess I've seen here. "So you chose the Games. Because you were bored with your life."

He nods. "I figured a quick death in the arena is preferable to dying a little every day. And if I win? A Victor can do anything. _Anything._" He gazes out into the city. "I think I'm going to be an architect. For my talent. All these buildings? Someone had to design these. I want to build something. Something grand and beautiful and permanent and _real."_

Long seconds pass.

"Thank you, Orion," I say softly.

He raises his brows. "For what?

I look out into the city. "For making it easier to get over your death."

He grins. "Don't get too cocky, Malachite. You aren't wearing a crown yet."

I bare my teeth at him. "Me? Cocky? Never."

When we walk back into the apartment, Dido is fixing herself a cup of coffee. She gives us an indulgent look, then registers the laughter on our faces, the easy way we walk together, the mugs in our hands. Her face quickly switches to a neutral expression, but she can't hide the way her pupils widen with apprehension.

I wish her goodnight and return to my room alone.


	10. Chapter 10

My stylist accosts me as soon as get out of the shower. "Madame Lucia is going to shave your head."

I sigh. I'm exhausted. I've spent the entire day prancing in front of Pan in heels and an ill-fitting skirt, learning how to sit like a lady, how to cross my legs, adjust my shoulders, breathe. Apparently I need more work than the female tributes from my district usually do, having never taken Games prep classes at the Institute. Dido took me after lunch to focus on prepping for the interviews. I give answers about strategy without giving too much away, answers on fashion that make it sound like I know what I'm talking about, and answers on what type of tree I would be if I had a choice, although I suspect that was mainly for my mentor's amusement. Brutus put Orion and me through the usual evening workout, and I'm sore, cranky, and entirely out of patience.

"You want to what now?" I snap as I toss my towel onto one of the suede leather armchairs.

Madame Lucia's lips are pursed and I notice with trepidation that she has a prep trolley with her. "Shave your head. Your public image is entirely too soft, my child, and you need a trademark look that will set you apart. We will debut it at the interviews tomorrow so you're identifiable at the Games."

My hand instinctively goes to my ragged hair and I'm back at the Reaver camp, smelling sour breath and body odor as a knife cuts through my braids. The scissors and shears and razors on the trolley mock me.

"It will be an advantage in the arena, my child. Nothing for an enemy to grab onto."

_Kill them all, Baria._

"Fine," I mutter. "Do whatever you want."

"It's not what I want, my child. It's what's most advantageous for you."

I take a seat at one of the dining room chairs. "Don't call me your child. I'm a grown woman."

"Miss Malachite were that true you would not be here."

I grit my teeth and Madame Lucia do her work. Black locks of hair tumble to the floor like an early summer's rain.

"Can you leave…anything?" I ask.

Madame Lucia doesn't reply, but pauses for a moment for consideration. Ten minutes later she hands me a mirror. My bald scalp glistens under the lights, except for a strip of half-inch hair Lucia left running down the middle. I touch it gingerly.

"It certainly feels….different."

"It will do," says Lucia. "Ah, you're here Pan. Good. And you have everything?"

I look towards the lift where our escort is stepping out of the elevator with several boxes and a dress bag. He's not in costume tonight and he raises an eyebrow when he sees me. "Distinctive. I like it. Here, put these on quickly while Lucia does your makeup."

He tosses the bag onto my lap. I pull out a scarlet evening gown, red as blood with diamond accents. "What's all this?"

"Don't ask questions, my child, we don't have the time right now," says Lucia as she pulls out several makeup kits. "Do as your escort says."

I bristle at her patronizing but nevertheless strip down and awkwardly put on the dress. It's more low-cut than anything I've ever worn, but after the parade I hardly feel exposed. Pan helps me into low heels and clips a couple of ruby earrings onto my earlobes as Lucia touches up my make-up. Once Madame Lucia declares me fit to be seen, my escort leads me to the elevator and presses the button for the atrium.

I'm starting to suspect I'm not going to an impromptu _Teen Games Gab_ photoshoot.

"This is quite illegal, isn't it?" I say as I wobble across the dark, empty atrium. "I can't imagine the Capitol would generally be thrilled with tributes sneaking out of the Training Center before the Games."

"As long as you are with me, no one is sneaking," says Pan shortly. "I am your escort. I am escorting you."

Sure enough, the security personnel at the doors nod us through. There's a limousine waiting on the drive outside.

"I suppose there are advantages to being from the loyal district," I say as a valet holds the door open.

Pan smirks. "You're about to find out just how much."

"Where's Orion? He's not coming?" I ask as the limo pulls away and takes us into the heart of the Capitol.

"He and Brutus snuck into the gymnasium for some sparring. It's a tradition, apparently. But your team thought your presence would be more useful elsewhere tonight."

I nod. I haven't seen my mentor since interview practice, but the hair, the dress, the sneaking away (no matter what Pan says to the contrary), they have the reek of Dido all over them.

It's my first close look at the Capitol, not counting the car ride from the train station to the Training center, and I unabashedly press my face against the window and gawp. The people I see are so grotesque and altered they almost seem a different species. Women with leopard spotted skin, hats three feet tall, noses so flattened they're almost removed. Men with spun-gold hair, suits made of white fur, horns and talons and tails surgically grafted onto their bodies. Many are nude. No doubt the 'body honesty' fad is still pulling strong. There are parties and concerts and raves, and above it all screens are playing clips from the parade and reapings. I see myself step onto the stage over and over and over…

We pull up onto a crowded curb. The valets step forward and assist Pan and me out of the limo. My jaw drops a bit. A massive gold and crystal palace looms over us, illuminated in purple and blue lights. The line to enter stretches around the block. Twenty foot high letters flash out the name 'Samson's.' Maura used to talk wistfully about the Capitol's most famous and exclusive nightclub. It seems I'm about to get the insider look.

Pan tells me to stay put and goes off to speak to the bouncers. I tug nervously at my dress until a slender arm links itself in mine.

"Imagine finding you here, Enobaria," says Citrine as she flashes a dazzling smile to someone snapping photos. She's wearing a gold net with diamonds stitched in patterns that preserve her modesty. Mostly.

"I didn't expect to be," I whisper. "What's going on?"

"Oh just a bit of preemptive advertising for the sponsors," she giggles. "It's a bit of a District One tradition. I understand your own district prefers to whack at each other with blunt objects, but I must say I prefer the company to Mercury. He's at the racetrack. I like the new haircut, by the way. You look all fierce. Now smile. The public is watching."

I paste on my biggest faux smile as Pan rejoins us with a tall, regal woman I recognize as the District 1 escort. "Ladies, this way," he motions. Men in dark suits surround us, partially concealing us from view. They escort us past the line directly into the glittering nightclub and casino.

Money was a bit of an abstract concept in District 2. From what I remember of my family life before the landslide we were never exactly poor. And all our needs were provided in the Institute, along with a small stipend every cadet receives for our service. But luxury, wealth, I didn't understand the concepts until now. Fountains of gold and platinum-plated walls, diamonds as plentiful as sand and emeralds the size of chicken eggs, silk and samite and fur and perfumes and spices and wine all flying past me in a whirlwind of excess. Citrine grips my arm tightly. She's looking around at the crowds with a hungry gaze in her eyes.

High above the crowds on the casino floor is a screen with the tributes faces, scores, and current odds. I'm given a one in eight chance. Orion is one in four. The worst odds are for the boy from 3, with one in three hundred twenty-six to survive the bloodbath.

My head hurts.

The escorts lead us into a private lounge, a large oak-paneled room with leather armchairs and couches. It's filled with about a hundred people not including the Avoxes, more conservatively dressed and generally older than the crowds outside. Pan situates us near a marble fireplace and presses drinks into our hands. I sip mine. It's just carbonated water.

"Stay here and don't call attention to yourself," says Pan. "I'll send over a few people for some nice conversation. And play nice," he adds. "Your life might depend on these people on a few days."

"Nervous?" whispers Citrine as our escorts disappear into the crowd.

"Wouldn't tell you if I was," I reply, and she gives me her predator's grin.

"Ah, the wonder team," says a young man in an evergreen suit as he approaches us. "What an honor. Are you ladies ready for the fun in a couple of days?"

"More than you know," says Citrine. I just keep trying to smile.

He's wearing too much cologne and his hair is unpleasantly greased-up into a spiral, but overall he's not bad conversation. He's an import official and has spent time in the Little Capitol in District 2 and we exchange pleasantries about the local beer. He promises both of us a small sum before the start of the Games and more if we both make it past the first week and moves on.

The next potential sponsor is a woman whose many surgeries can't entirely cover up her immense age. "Urgulana, my poppets. Such a pleasure. Happy Hunger Games to you both." She eyes us shrewdly. "I hope you'll both understand that I'm dedicated to dear Orion this year. Such a handsome boy. So handsome. But I'll tell you what. A nice gift to whomever can get him out of his trousers first! Make sure the cameras get a good angle too."

Citrine barely manages to muffle her laughter. I give a tight smile and promise to do my best. Urgulana gets a picture with us and departs. Our next visitor is a much younger woman, naked except for strings of pearls. She introduces herself as Larissa Farrar and gives us a cold leer.

"Normally I'm a dedicated District Four supporter," she says as she fingers her pearls. "But certain…sources indicate the girl at least is not a contender this year. Thoughts?"

I smile. "I think you must have some well-placed sources."

She returns the smile. "Well, my contribution has already been confirmed with your mentors. On the other hand, I've owed Cora Shutter and District Eight a bad turn for a few years now. What do you say to 10,000 sesterces for taking down the little girl at the bloodbath?"

I feel like a fist hit my stomach before I was ready and I sway on my feet. "If…If you say," I manage to stammer. Larissa gives me a kiss on the cheek.

It goes on. 15,000 sesterces for anyone who murders five or more at the bloodbath. A nice picnic lunch if we make a kill last over two hours. One lecherous old man promises to keep us supplied with water for the first week if he can feel our breasts. Citrine allows it, I do not.

Citrine gets more and more cheerful as the evening goes on. I'm grateful because I'm the opposite. At least District 2 has a reputation for quiet, intimidating killers but I'm not convinced I don't just look nauseous. My stomach is rolling and my head is spinning and there's a boy who can't be any more than fourteen eagerly asking if we think we'll manage any decapitations this year.

Reavers.

All I can see are the Reavers.

These people are just Reavers in wigs and pearls, gawping at me through the bars of the Cage, screaming at me to kill, kill them all.

I disentangle myself from Citrine. "Be back."

"Where are you going?" she hisses as the boy waxes eloquent on how his stepfather bought him a real arena knife two years ago.

"Bathroom," I mutter and hurry off, ignoring the sounds of indignation as I push past the crowds haphazardly. There's a discrete sign near the back of the lounge and I stumble into the woman's lavatory, barely making it into a stall before I vomit spectacularly into a gold-plated toilet. A recorded voice asks if I'd like a breath mint.

There's more vomit on my chin and I wipe it off with my hand. "Stupid, stupid, Baria," I mutter. Weak. That's what I am. Weak and sentimental. I'm here to do a job and that's what I'm going to do. I'm here to earn my revenge and nothing is going to keep me from it. I'm here –

I vomit again. At least there's not much left in my stomach.

"Not a very good showing there, District Two," says a voice from outside the stall.

I pull myself up and stumble out to the sinks. There's a young woman adjusting her makeup in the mirror. A girl, really, she can't be much older than myself. Long black hair pours down her shoulders, and her black eyes match the simple evening gown she's in. She looks vaguely familiar.

"I thought Careers were supposed to be tough. Dangerous. Eager for the glory of victory in the arena."

I splash some water from the marble sink onto my face. "Ate something funny. Fish, maybe."

"Ah, of course," she replies as she adjusts her lipstick. "Wouldn't want anyone to think you might be a little scared. Fish. Of course.

"I'm not scared," I say, a little too quickly.

She smirks. "Then you're stupid. And you still have a little something there," she adds as she touches her chin.

I angrily splash more water on my face, getting half of it over myself. The woman tuts.

"Now you've gone and smudged up your make-up. Fix that or the tabloids will tear you up like shark mutts."

I look at my smudged eyeliner and grimace. "I don't…I don't know how."

She gives a huge sigh. "Come here." She wets a paper towel and wipes my face, then does a few adjustments. "Better. Now back out to your adoring public."

She doesn't need to tell me, I'm halfway out the door already. I stop near the edge of the crowd, looking for a familiar face. I see Pan talking to a man with the largest belly I've ever seen and start to move towards him, but a hand grips my arm in an iron grip.

"I wouldn't," whispers the woman from the bathroom. "That's the Minister of the Courts. Not someone you want as a sponsor. If you make it out he'll practically own you. See how your escort is trying to get away?"

All I see is Pan engaged in polite conversation, but I'm hardly adept at picking up those clues. I look for Citrine but she's nowhere in sight and now my head is pounding again.

"Stand with me in the corner until he's done," says the woman. "No one will bother us."

"How do you know?" I whisper even as I follow her.

Her smile is tight. "Because I'm rather out of favor at the moment and no one wants our dear president frowning down at them by association."

She's right. I see a few eyes flicker over to us, a few people move hesitantly in our direction, but they think better of it and turn away. My head actually starts to feel better.

"Thanks," I say to my companion.

She gives me a look with eyes far older than anyone her age has a right to have. "Don't get used to it, District Two. Your future is either a pine box, or this." She gestures at the room.

I bristle. "My future is in my district. In my home."

She gives a cruel chuckle. "Silly little bird. It's precious. Don't fool yourself, the moment you stepped onto the stage at the reaping, they owned you. I hope the glory and the fame and honor for your district are worth it."

I raise my chin. "You have no idea why I'm here. Do not pretend to."

She gives me a queer look. "You know what? I believe you. But I'm warning you now. Whatever you think you're going to do after the Games, whatever you're here for, they will take it and twist it and destroy you with it. Think about that when your little alliance crumbles and you're fighting for your life. It's not life you're fighting for. And that's something none of your mentors will ever tell you."

A hundred questions and accusations pop into my head but at that moment a young man in a dark suit materializes out of the crowd.

"Cecelia?" he says. "Mags is waiting at the roulette wheel. She says she has something to discuss with you."

"Tell her I'll be right along," says the woman. "I'm making friends."

The young man gives me one cold look and disappears.

"Blight doesn't really like Careers," she says, but I ignore this in favor of gawping at her.

"You're Cecelia Rheys," I say. I knew she looked familiar. I'm kicking myself for not recognizing her right away. But in all fairness when I think of the Victor of the Fifty-Seventh Games, I remember a screaming, half-insane girl decapitating her ally, not this woman smiling coldly at me.

"Surprised?" she asks. "Don't be. If you're lucky you'll never run into me again."

"What are you doing here?" The words fall out of my mouth. "I thought you'd be…um…"

"Cradling my sister and whispering sweet sorrows into her little ears?" Cecelia shrugs. "There's a part of me that would like nothing more. And I'm sure I'll let that part out before the Games start, not that it's any concern of yours. But tonight I'm afraid I have rather important things to do."

"Sponsors. Right," I say.

She gives me a deeply amused look. "Yes, my dear. Of course. Sponsors." She looks back out over the room. "It looks like dear Pan has escaped the Minister's vile clutches. Run along now, District Two. You've taken up enough of my time."

She walks away, but I can't help myself. I call out "Cecelia!" She turns.

I don't know what to say. "During the Games, if I find your sister. I'll make it…" What? Painless? Quick?" "I'll make sure it's not something they remember."

For a moment something flashes in Cecelia's eyes, something vulnerable and almost human, and then it's gone. "A lovely sentiment. But that's not something you'll need to concern yourself with, little bird. Happy Hunger Games, District Two." She disappears.

As soon as she's gone people start approaching me again. I take a deep breath, adjust my dress and plunge back into the grasping hands of the Capitol.

* * *

**AN: A shorter chapter this time around but I hope you all enjoy it. This chapter sort of stretches the limits of what's possible in canon, but I wanted Enobaria to face the reality of what she's doing in a situation where she can't avoid it. I actually didn't intend for Cecelia's cameo to correspond with her chapter in **_**The Victors Project**_**. A nice coincidence all around.**


	11. Chapter 11

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Esteemed guests, and of course that means everyone watching at home, it is my privilege to welcome you all to this celebration of the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games!"

The roar of the crowd is defining even in the wings. I pick at a thread at my dress until someone from my prep team pushes my hand away and snips the offending thread off. I look forward to where Caesar Flickerman is prancing about on the stage. He's looks as ecstatic as a kid on Wintermas morning, his twinkling diamond suit and evergreen hair adding to the festive effect.

Interview Night. The most anticipated and dreaded event before the Games themselves. I thought after the parade prep would be simple, but apparently my body has degraded to horrifying levels in the past four days, if the laments of my prep team are anything to go by. They rewaxed, buffed, clipped, and polished every inch of me until Madame Lucia came in with my dress. It's actually not too bad. Simple black silk with a slit in the side so I can walk easily. It's covered in flakes of lapis lazuli patterned in intricate designs, a throwback to the parade. My strip of hair is tinted to match. I think Maura would have liked it, particularly the shoulder pads made of layered steel blades that give the impression of deadly feathers. I'm just glad I'm not dressed in woven straw with a matching wide-brimmed hat like the girl from 9.

I swallow. A small, traitorous part of me would rather be in the arena tonight.

"And without further ado, I present to you, the tributes of this year's Games!"

I stumble forward and almost fall. I'm still not used to these heels. They're higher than any I've worn, supposedly so the dress hangs right, but small good that will do me if I pitch forward on my face in front of the whole nation.

Somehow I manage to get onto the stage and into my chair without humiliating myself. Caesar is saying our names, but I'm staring into the stage lights, trying to force my eyes to adjust. I can make out the City Circle beyond the stage, packed to capacity, the Gamemakers in their private balcony, the president in shadows beyond, the mentors and stylists in the first two rows. I'm trying to find anyone from 2 and I think I make out Lyme's distinctive face before I register that Citrine is walking up to Caesar and I wrench my attention back to the show.

My ally from 1 is dazzling, an explosion of flowers woven into her hair and a wispy white dress clinging to her curves. She doesn't need to play up the coy, seductive siren the audience loves, they only need to look at her. Citrine is eager, a bit nasty at times, and wildly joyous as she talks about killing her way through the competition. She's a huge hit.

Mercury surprises me. The boy from 1 hasn't made much of an effect on me except in the sword-fighting ring where his skills are unparalleled in this year's tribute pool. But now he pulls a charming elegant gentleman out of somewhere, talking and bantering with the air of someone who's been spoon-fed social graces from a silver bowl since birth. Caesar makes some inside jokes about famous Capitolians I've never heard of and Mercury responds with his own, leaving the audience in stitches. When he leaves, they cheer like he's already one of them.

And then it comes. "From District Two, everyone, the stunning Enobaria Malachite!"

I glide over to Caesar, focusing on taking small, measured steps. I don't stumble once. I take a deep breath and remember Dido's instructions. Eager. Personable. Give two real smiles. Slightly lower my natural voice. Don't mention any of the other tributes. Should be simple.

"So, Enobaria," Caesar begins and why are all these people looking at me? "What has left the biggest impression on something something words words words?" and what.

I have no idea what Caesar just asked me and even less of what I'm saying. I'm frozen. Paralyzed. More questions are coming and more words are tumbling out of my traitor mouth. I try to break free, try to listen to what's being asked and said but the words are like water and the more I try to grasp them the more they slip away.

I think we talk about ducks at one point.

The buzzer sounds, ending my three minutes. My brain decides to kick it into overdrive and suddenly the applause is as loud as a train. There's a lot of it. What are they even clapping for? I suddenly see Dido sitting in the second row. Her eyebrows are raised. Oh no.

Orion gives me an amused look as he passes me on his way upstage. I take my seat again, forcing myself to sit with proper posture and not fidget even as I mentally stab myself repeatedly. Stupid, stupid, _stupid _Baria.

I can't make another mistake, and that starts now. Dido told me to pay close attention to each of the tributes and listen to my instincts about each one. So with a great effort of will I force myself to listen to Caesar and Orion.

Caesar is saying something about the half-dozen girlfriends he's sure Orion has back in Two. Orion smirks and tells Caesar he's not giving him enough credit, to the audience's amusement. I try not to grimace. An outlier Victor made a splash a decade ago by telling the audience he liked boys, but Orion can't afford to extinguish the fantasies of half the fan base. The buzzer goes off and he gets a large, distinctively female cheer.

And so the parade of doomed children begins. I listen to the entire thing.

The girl from 3 is Sonara. She likes to read trashy Capitol romances. She thinks she can win if she get her hands on some survival supplies and maybe a knife. She's a very good climber.

The boy from 3 is Codey. He says only a few sentences over the course of his three minutes. Caesar has to fill in with increasingly pointless chatter. Codey would like to buy fireworks if he wins. His dad helps makes the fireworks that are shot off over the Capitol on holidays. He thinks some of the other tributes are bullies and he doesn't like bullies.

Hera has a sister waiting back in District 4. She's very proud of her district. She talks about the strength, fortitude, and adaptability of Panem's fisher folk and she makes it clear she's inherited all these traits and isn't afraid to use them.

Caesar asks Tiller about his private session with the Gamemakers even though it's technically off-limits, so Tiller makes sure we all know that he is not stealthy and not partial to range weapons, and he definitely did not hit below the belt in hand-to-hand combat with the trainers.

The girl from 5 is Rachel. She is sullen and short with Caesar. When she's asked if she's prepared for the Games she bursts out crying and apologizes to the family miles away for disappointing them.

The boy from 5 is Genner. He's got a sort of scrappy energy that the audience loves. He's also thirteen and weighs maybe eighty pounds soaking wet. He has no chance, he has to know he has no chance, but he cracks jokes about setting up a hammock he learned to make during training and enjoying a well-deserved break from school.

The girl from 6 is Cloud. She's from one of the Community Homes in her district. She has no family. She looks startled and a bit angry when Caesar asks what she does for fun back home. She works a shift after school to safe money for an apprenticeship at the engineering program when she graduates. She has no time for fun.

Rob is a bit of a dud, stumbling over his answers about his suit and what he likes in the Capitol, right up until he throws up his hands and admits that he was never much good at talking and would Caesar like to have an arm wrestling match? They actually lay down on the stage. Rob wins, but he lets Caesar put up a fight.

The girl from 7 is Holly. She's the second oldest of eight children. Her dress shows of her strong shoulders and biceps. Holly claims she has no surprises for the arena, everyone knows she can use an ax and she intends to show them all just how well.

The boy from 7 is Kormac. He's tall and wiry and proves his strength by doing twenty pushups on the stage. When Caesar asks him who he thinks which Victor he's most like, he surprises everyone by citing the man from the Second Quarter Quell, the only living Victor from 12. Kormac claims to know the value of district loyalty and outsmarting the more stupid members of the competition. Caesar quickly moves the conversation to his shoes.

Kerry Rheys talks about her mother, her sister Cecelia, her brother, her dead father. She shows the audience her district token, a small ball given to her by her niece. She's soft-spoken and sweet, calm, brave, and leaves no doubt exactly how much the Games have destroyed her family.

The boy from 8 is Kent and when Caesar asks what he's enjoyed in the Capitol he spits onto the stage. We all know which tribute this year is going to die a horrific, arena related death.

The girl from 9 is Savannah and she makes a joke about her horrible straw dress, claiming that it smells like home. She's lanky and tall and claims she's quick enough to catch a fly out of the air in the fields during the summer. She doesn't mention that she probably eats them.

The boy from 9 is Plowman. He doesn't need to perfume his balls or use sissy tricks to show the world what a man who's not afraid to sweat can do.

The girl from 10 is Josephina. Her family raises goats for meat and milk. She loves animals very much and hopes there are a lot of them in the arena because she's sure to be their friends. She's fortunate her stylist didn't put a lot of eyeshadow on her, but under the bright lights the tear streaks are still evident.

The boy from 10 is Holsteen. He's big and dark and could be mistaken for my brother. He claims putting down tributes won't be any different from wrangling cattle. It's very clearly not empty bluster. He looks Caesar in the eye and says with complete confidence that he will be coming back.

The girl from 11 is Starling. She's fourteen and pretty and she begs the audience to help her go home. She doesn't say anything about strategy or strengths. She just wants to go home.

The boy from 11 is Cayne. He's another tribute with no family to speak of. If he manages to live five days into the Games he'll be nineteen, and if he wins he'll be the oldest Victor in the history of the Games. He hopes the audience remembers to send him a birthday cake because he's never had one.

The girl from 12 is Naomi and she's the surprise of the evening. She's extremely intelligent, telling Caesar all about the history of coal mining and how miners survive in almost hopeless conditions. Her buzzer goes off as she's telling Caesar about how coal dust is an explosive substance and how a small amount in the right conditions can take out living targets fifty yards away and the audience's applause only swells as she returns to her seat.

The boy from 12 is Jay and he mostly sighs and almost every answer is monosyllabic. He likes the cheesy noodles he had at dinner his first night in the Capitol. He can't even put on an act for three minutes for the camera, and his face says bloodbath all over it.

Jay returns to his seat and the audience stands and roars and claps and cheers. I look down the row of cannon fodder. Some of them are pathetic. Others are threats. And still others I think are people I would like in another life. But all of them must die for me to return to District 2 and earn my chance at revenge.

_Kill them all, Baria, _Pat whispers into my ear as he lays dying by the creek.

We walk off the stage together. As soon as I'm behind the curtain I kick off my heels and grimace. Orion chortles. "Better hope they don't put you in pumps tomorrow, Malachite."

"From your mouth to the Gamemakers ears," I mutter.

Pan finds us and escorts us back to the Training Center. He leaves us in the atrium before heading off to a quick staff meeting, telling us to head back to the suite_._ There are a few tributes waiting by the elevator doors when we approach. They draw back slightly when we join them. Orion smirks. I ignore them.

We step into the elevator with another tribute and let the doors close. Orion towers over the other girl, crossing his arms. "You ready to die tomorrow, little girl?"

She looks up at him. It's Kerry Rheys. "Perhaps that's something you should be asking yourself."

He snorts. "Think again. You're talking to this year's Victor."

"All men die, Orion Baker." Kerry's eyes are hard and black. "All women, too. Even Victors. Tomorrow me. Then you. The day after. Or next week. A month, a half-century. Still, you will die."

Orion stares at the little girl. I remind myself not to drink anything in District 8 when I go through for the Victory Tour. I don't want to catch whatever causes the crazy.

Orion and I leave Kerry Rheys behind as the door opens to our suite. Phoebus and Brutus whisk Orion away for last minute private sessions. Dido, Barty and Lyme are waiting in the sitting room. Dido clears her throat.

"Well. That was…off script."

The corner of Barty's mouth is twitching. Lyme eyes crinkle. I feel myself going red.

"I made a fool of myself, didn't I?"

Dido raises an eyebrow. "You tell me. You were the one on the stage."

"I don't remember." I collapse onto the couch, picking at the flakes of lapis on my dress, not caring that I'm peeling them half off. "I have no idea what I said."

"Stage fright is a bitch," laughs Lyme.

I debate the benefits of just stepping off the pedestal tomorrow and blowing myself up. "I suppose I'll have to just watch the recaps."

My mentor shrugs. "You know what? What's done is done. I want you focused on tomorrow. When you come back, it won't matter. So just enjoy the happy mystery. It didn't lose you any sponsors, let's leave it at that."

I look up at her. "I didn't humiliate myself?"

Barty is writing on a pad of paper. He rips it from the pad and hands it to me.

_They saw the real you._

Suddenly my throat is tight and I'm very, very tired. "I'm going to wash up," I say. "I guess this is it. Tomorrow morning is the arena."

I stand and face my team. The mentor, the back-up, and the one who's going to persuade rich buffoons to invest in my survival. My life is in their hands now.

Lyme crosses her arms over her chest in our traditional salute. I return it. "It's been a privilege, Malachite."

Barty gives me the salute as well, then pulls something out from around his neck. His own district token from his Games. He links it through mine and clasps our hands around the tags. The message is clear. Our lives are linked. We survive, fight, breathe together.

I turn to Dido. "So. Any last words of advice?"

She smirks. "Yes. But I'll save them for when stumble out of your room at four in the morning."

I scowl. "You're the worst mentor I've ever had."

"Of course, sunshine," she says. "Now get to bed. Early to bed, early to rise, keeps a tribute, healthy, wealthy, and not dead."

I don't last until four in the morning. Not even till midnight. I toss and turn, twisting the sheets around under me. I hear Orion creep past around eleven. I wait until I'm sure he's snuck off to wherever he intends to go before I throw off the blankets and drag myself into the suite.

Dido is in the kitchen. She's making something in the blender.

"Oh good," she says as she pours the mess into a glass. "I'll get to go to bed at a reasonable hour."

I lean against the counter. "Well, this is it, mentor mine. What have you got for me? Secret strategies? A speech on duty and honor? A heart to heart about our tragic pasts, where we discover how similar we actually are and forge a new bond hours before the Games?"

"Even better," says Dido as she hands me the glass. "Drugs. Lots and lots of delicious, wonderful drugs."

She hands me the glass. I look closely at the chocolate milkshake and see the specks of crushed pills inside.

"You're awful," I say as I take a drink.

"And proud," she replies.

A sweet, heady haze is spreading through my body. I look at my hand in awe. I have _five fingers! Whoa!_

"I changed my mind," I giggle as my body turns feather light and I start to float away. "You're the…best…mentor…of them…all."

"Good to hear, moonbeam. I knew you'd come around eventually."

I try to keep my head clear for a bit longer. "So…no other last words of…advice?"

"The only thing that matters, Malachite. Kill them all."

Kill them all.

I think I'm back in my bed. The voice doesn't stop.

_Kill them all, Baria._

* * *

Madame Lucia wakes me before dawn. Whatever Dido drugged me with last night doesn't leave any morning effects, to my relief. I struggle to find proper clothes but Lucia reminds me they'll dress me at the arena. I throw on a clean t-shirt and training shoes before following her out of the suite. The whole floor is quiet as a tomb.

We go up to the roof where I can just see the first pink of dawn rising over the Capitol. There's a hovercraft waiting above us. Two ladders lower and Lucia and I each take hold of one. An electric current locks me to the ladder as the hovercraft lifts off. Something in my stomach swoops as we fly hundreds of meters off the ground until the hovercraft lifts us inside.

Madame Lucia reminds me to eat and hydrate myself as the hovercraft soars away towards the arena. There's a banquet set out at a table between plush chairs. A last meal. I take a plate and gorge myself on toast and eggs and sausage. I try a little poached salmon. I don't like it. I eat it anyway. No point in wasting food now.

The windows suddenly tint black and I realize we must be close to the arena. An orderly approaches and holds my arm as she injects a needle into my arm. My tracker. So the Gamemakers can always find me. So they can turn on the appropriate cameras.

The hovercraft comes to a halt and Lucia and I are lowered into the Stockyard.

It's there that I start to break, surrounded by concrete and steel with the glass tube waiting. This is happening. This is really happening. The Hunger Games.

The Hunger Games. Fuck, Enobaria, fuck, FUCK.

"It's normal to be afraid, my child," says Lucia as she carries the bundle that must contain my uniform.

"I'm not afraid," I say, too quickly. Lucia doesn't reply. "Okay, I'm afraid. I'd be a lunatic if I weren't. I am _not_ going to let that stop me."

"That's the spirit, child," says Lucia. Then she pulls out my uniform.

I take a step back. "You have to be kidding me."

"Madame Lucia did not design the uniforms. She can only give what is provided." She hands it to me.

I look at it in revulsion. "They can't….they can't…they can't do this!"

"You will find that the Gamemakers can do many things. This is their arena, after all," says Lucia. She holds out a second package. "Here's the rest of it."

I close my eyes. Of course. Of course. I am going to kill Orion slowly and painfully, even though the logical part of me knows he had nothing to do with this and the Gamemakers plan each arena years in advance. It's not much of a comfort.

Once I'm dressed, Lucia leads me over to the mirror. The evening gown I'm wearing has a tight collar and no sleeves. It's pure white silk, perfect for showing every bloodstain. Diamond earrings are clipped onto my ears, a matching choker around my neck. And on my feet, white pumps. Five inch heels.

"First thing I do before the gong rings is kick these off," I mutter.

Lucia is putting on some minimal makeup but she nearly drops her brush. "Don't even dare, my child," she hisses as she grips my shoulder in a painful pinch. "The Gamemakers will think you're looking to set off the mines of someone around you and they'll shock you into unconsciousness if they have to. They're not going to let that happen again."

"Alright alright, keep your tattoos on," I mutter. I'll have to waste precious seconds removing my shoes after the mines are deactivated. I hope there's a sword very, very close.

There's nothing left to do now but wait. We sit opposite each other, not speaking. The silence stretches long. I'm finding it hard to breathe again and I start counting down the Victors starting with last year and moving backwards. Then the runner ups, then the arenas, and I'm going through the death order of the Second Quarter Quell when Lucia clears her throat.

"Why are you here, my child?"

I open one eye. "I'm here to win the Games."

"Madame Lucia believes you are. But she does not know if you should. Forty-eight years Madame Lucia has been styling. And I've never been more torn about a tribute until now."

I gape at her, open mouthed. "Well thanks, you bitch. Sorry to tell you but I don't much give a damn for the opinion of some…some," I search for the most offensive epithet I can think of. "_Beautician."_

Madame Lucia sighs. "This beautician hears many things. She knows many people. Madame Lucia knows who you are, Enobaria. She knows where you were taken, earlier this summer. She suspects why you are here."

I cross my arms. "And you care why?"

"Because Madame Lucia has styled for fourteen Victors and none of them have understood there is life after the Games. You may win, you come home, and you do…whatever you need to do. And then what? My child, there is only life ahead of you. Life, long and unmerciful. What will you do with it?"

_Kill them all, Baria_.

"Whatever I have to," I say.

"When the time comes, promise me you will fight for yourself," says Madame Lucia. "Not for your district or your people or whatever vendetta rules your heart. You fight for you. Promise me that."

It suddenly occurs to me that the only two people who have been honest to me about what I'm about to do is a half-insane Victor from a rival district and an old woman with birds inlaid in her collarbone.

"I promise," I say.

"Then I wish you luck," says Madame Lucia. "But of all my tributes, I have no trouble saying I believe you need it the least."

Somewhere there's a voice telling me to step onto the platform. Madame Lucia helps takes my hand and helps me up. I totter in the heels, but only a bit.

"Live, Enobaria," says my stylist and then the glass closes us off and I'm left looking at the last person I'll ever see who doesn't want me dead.

The platform rises.

I lift my head, closing my eyes as I'm lifted into the arena. Declan dances briefly at the corner of my mind. Maura. Pat.

Otho. The Speaker.

The pedestal comes to a halt. Somewhere in the distance a voice is booming. Claudius Templesmith, welcoming us all to the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games.

Someone is screaming.

_Kill them all, Baria._

I open my eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

It's a ballroom.

Crystal chandeliers. Tall windows. Thick, embroidered curtains. Marble floor. High, arching ceiling.

Four exits. Heavy, oak-paneled doors.

The golden Cornucopia in the center of the room. Weapons. More supplies. Not important right now.

_48\. 47. 46._

Twenty-four tributes on our pedestals. Girls all in evening gowns. Heels. Jewelry. Men in white tuxes. Flat shoes. They have the advantage.

Tiller. Three spots to the left. Mercury halfway down the line. Orion hidden from sight. And Citrine. Two cannon fodder tributes on either side.

_35\. 34. 33._

A sword twenty feet from my pedestal. Knives are closer. Gardens outside the windows. Focus.

_30\. 29. 28._

Finding targets. The boy from 7. The boy from 10. The girl from 9. Hera.

One girl a few spots down the line on my right. Hard face. Determined look. Tall. Kerry Rheys. Staring around with tears streaming down her face. Her district token in her hand. A small ball. Her hands shake.

Her eyes meet mine briefly and I know what she's about to do.

The ball tumbles from her hands.

The mines go off. A blast of sound. Rush of hot air. Bits of unidentifiable burning tribute raining down. A bloody, burning scorch mark on the marble floors. Smoke. Acrid. Burns.

Screams ringing through the room. A half-insane laugh. Mercury.

Twenty-two more to go.

_7\. 6. 5._

Declan, I promise. Pat. Maura. I promise.

_4\. 3. 2._

The gong rings and my mind snaps into place like a dislocated arm pops back into a socket.

The first thing to go are these damn shoes. They're looser than they should be and it only takes a couple precious seconds to kick them off. I breathe a silent thanks to Madame Lucia as I leap off the platform into the mass of yelling, running tributes. I ignore the knives scattered in front of me in favor of the short sword closer to the Cornucopia. I snatch it up and spin it in a silver arc, cutting through the girl from 5 as she totters past me. Her blood splashes across my gown. It's hot.

I was right about the shoes. The female tributes are mostly struggling to limp away on their high heels or kick them off while the males run at full sprints towards the supplies or exits. The boy from 3 dashes past me with his arms loaded with supplies. Cutting him down would be easy but I let him go in favor of the boy from 7. He's found twin hatchets and is shouting for his allies.

The boy from the lumber district barely has time to raise one of his weapons before my sword comes down. He only half blocks the blow and the blade cuts through his shoulder. One hatchet drops from his now useless arm. He screams and chops at me wildly, amped up on the fear and adrenaline. My own body responds in kind. I haven't felt this strong, this invulnerable, this alive since the massacre at the Reaver camp. The boy from 7 gets a couple more swings in but I get in close and cut through his wrist before plunging my sword through his chest.

I let the blood cover me this time. The audience gets what it wants.

There's a sharp whistle and I duck as a spear flies over my head, impaling itself in another girl. "Watch it!" I snarl at Tiller. He gives me a little wink and a wave before diving for another spear. I didn't figure him to be the one who gets cheery at child-murder. Just goes to show you never know a tribute until the gong sounds.

I spin, hunting for more cannon fodder. I see a couple fleeing through the doors and let them go. I turn towards another battle. Rob is fighting the boy from 9, spinning and lunging, the knives in his hands darting in like silver hummingbirds. But his opponent has a scythe, giving him the advantage of both strength and reach and Rob barely manages to avoid having his stomach sliced open.

I run towards my ally but Orion gets there first. He gives a massive leap, kicking the boy from 9 away from Rob before swinging a bastard sword through the air. The boy from 9's head rolls away as Rob gives a sigh of relief.

"Consider yourself rescued, damsel," my district partner says as he ruffles a bloody hand through Rob's hair. Rob gives a disgruntled grunt that turns into a shout as he pushes Orion aside and repays a debt that's only seconds old. His knife flies through the air into the shoulder of the girl from 9 who was sneaking up behind Orion with a long, serrated knife. She screams but doesn't drop the weapon, instead running as fast as she can towards one the exits.

I race to intercept her but as I run past the mouth of the Cornucopia the boy from 10 burst out from inside, shoving me to the ground. I slap my hands down on the floor to break the fall but not before my head slams into the edge of the Cornucopia. I see stars and red flashes. "Take them down!" I try to scream but I have to hold down the vomit that rises in the back of my throat.

Both the field girl and the rancher boy manage to escape through the doors. I struggle to my feet as Orion gives a roar of frustration and sends a spear flying into a tribute cowering in a corner. She slams against the wall and dies without further pretense.

For one terrifying moment my head swims and vision doubles and I'm sure I'm about to get knifed in the back by some ambitious outlier. But then I find my center of gravity and steady myself. I let myself vomit and I feel a bit better.

"A lovely display, Enobaria," comes a lilting voice. "Shame you missed your dress, it would have matched your eyes."

"You would know, Citrine," I mutter as I rub my eyes. My head still throbs like a bitch but I push past it. "Was that the last of them?"

"Not quite. We saved one for dessert." Mercury's voice is cruelly amused.

The tributes from 1 are standing near the windows, twirling thin rapiers in lazy circles. Citrine hasn't even bothered to kick off her heels, Mercury's tux is immaculate. Hera is between them, backed up against one of the windows, unarmed and practically spitting in fury.

"Cowards," she hisses. "Storms take you all, you shits. Give me a weapon and fight me."

"Now, that would be stupid," drawls Citrine as she gives a fake little lunge. "This is a good look for you. Helpless and so very, very alone. You did bring it on yourself, although let's be honest. The Capitol has no use for a Victor built along the lines of a coal train." She gives a tinkling little laugh as she flips her hair over her shoulder.

"Five on one. How noble. How brave. Your districts would be so proud. They're probably saluting their heroes in the squares right now." Hera's attempts at shaming are her last defense, but she seems to be determined to wield them. "You think they're holding a party in Shantytown right now Tiller? Think your uncles and cousins are all cheering you on?"

Tiller refuses to look at his district partner. "Just kill her," he says. "Kill her and be done with it and let's move on."

"Oh no," says Mercury. "We're taking our time with this little minx. I call dibs."

"Not a chance in Twelve," says Citrine. She gives Orion a little wink. "You'll like how hot I look in red, stud." Orion makes an attempt at an approving hetero grunt.

"Give her a weapon." I say.

My allies give me looks ranging from shock to anger. Both are mingled on Hera's face.

"Did Four's pretty posturing make you swoon, Two?" Mercury leers. "I knew you were dumb, but I didn't think you were soft."

"Say that to me again and I'll fuck you with a piece of sandpaper, little boy. I'm going to kill her myself."

"Then do it," says Orion.

"I'm going to. But I'll give her the fight she wants." I look at Hera. "Get past me, and you're free to go, Four. The others will let you go, for now. You just need to get past me and through the door."

"You _are _soft," says Mercury in half-awed tones.

"We're here to put on a show," I snap. "And that's what I'm going to do. You want to skewer unarmed little girls, you'll have the chance, half the cannon fodder made it out. I plan to do this right. Now let her arm herself and _back down._"

Citrine pouts a bit and Mercury gives me a black look, but they step aside and let Hera pass. To her credit, the fisher girl doesn't make a mad dash for one of the doors, instead she walks straight to the Cornucopia and begins rummaging inside.

"I sure hope you know what you're doing," mutters Citrine as she links her arm in mine.

"You know I'm right, beautiful," I say as I squeeze her arm. "Too many got away. We need to provide a little spectacle if we don't want something black and slimy creeping up on us tonight."

"I would have made it a good show," shrugs Citrine, but she doesn't make any more protests, which I take as tacit agreement. "Try not to vomit on her, I don't think that's the spectacle they're looking for."

I slap her lightly across the face, she gives a little coo, and then Hera is standing at the mouth of the Cornucopia with knives stuck into her belt and two long pole weapons in her hands. The ugly look on her face makes me question this decision briefly, but I push the doubts down. I can beat her. And despite my open contempt for the fisher girl and her self-righteous moralizing, she deserves better than being straight out butchered.

"Just you and me, Four," I say as I step between her and the doors leading out of the ballroom.

She grins and gives an ironic little salute. "If you had given me a choice I would've picked you." She moves.

Her spear flies through the air, straight and true. I dive and roll and the spear misses by scant inches. I roll to my feet and push down the dizziness from my head injury, and in the time it takes to find my balance Hera is on me. Her other weapon is a glaive and it darts through the air towards my throat. I spin away and slash my sword towards the wooden pole. She pulls back and regroups.

We circle each other at the mouth of the Cornucopia. Neither of us wastes our breath on insults or taunts even though the pack is cheering me on, shouting at me to drop her. Hera has the advantage of reach, and she's not unskilled; District 4 tributes are usually trained on pole arms as they're closest to the native harpoons and tridents. But she has to constantly pull back to keep me from cutting her weapon in half and rendering it a useless pole. My own weapon is shorter than I'm used to, but I've been trained on swords since I was nine.

I parry and thrust, knocking the glaive aside again and again. Hera grows more and more desperate in her attempts to gut me. She twirls the glaive in an arc, intending to cut through my neck. I bend backwards and let it soar over me. I grab the pole with my free hand and spin inwards. Hera has to release the glaive to avoid the blow and I toss it aside as she pulls out her knives.

She twists and turns, lunging at me and trying to lock my sword between her blades. Now I had both reach and skill and my sword starts drawing blood. Soon she's bleeding out from a dozen small cuts. She makes one more desperate dive and I move in for the kill.

My bare feet slip on the bloody floor and I go down hard. I twist away and her knife cuts through my back in a rope of white-hot pain. I kick out, tripping the fisher girl. We leap to our feet simultaneously and the dance resumes.

I'm slower, each movement sends more pain through my back, but Hera is drained and exhausted. I make a gamble, feinting towards her legs. She takes the bait.

I spin and go for her neck as she stumbles helplessly forward and then Mercury is there, lunging to claim the kill himself. It's too late to stop myself and we collide, falling to the ground together.

Hera takes the opportunity. She leaps over us and sprints towards the door, her bare feet slapping against the marble floor.

I shove Mercury away and hurl my sword at her fleeing back. It soars through the air, spinning in two lazy arcs before cutting through the back of Hera's neck. She drops like a broken puppet, her spine severed.

I grab Mercury by the collar, pulling him close. "Stay out of my way, One," I hiss before shoving him away, leaving bloody handprints on his coat.

Citrine starts clapping slowly. "Good show, Enobaria. Marvelously good show. Looks like you were right."

She nods her head towards the ceiling as a silver parachute falls from a panel in the ceiling. It glides right into my hands. I pull out a large bottle of ice cold water and an ice pack that I immediately press to my head. I sit against one of the walls and take a long drink, splashing a bit on my face. The ice against my head soothes the throbbing and I give an involuntary moan of relief.

Tiller sits beside me with ointment and bandages from the Cornucopia. He cuts away part of the back of my dress before dressing and bandaging my wound. He doesn't say anything, and doesn't have to. I'm aware of what District 4 honor looks like by now.

The cannons start to fire. We count them off together.

"Nine," says Orion. "Not the best, not the worst either. Looks like we're hunting tonight. But first, you know what they say." He nods towards the Cornucopia. "To the victors go the spoils."

I stand up and follow my allies to the plunder at the Cornucopia, avoiding the still warm corpses of the fallen tributes and the pools of congealing blood. I pick up a new sword at the mouth of the horn and give it a few experimental twirls. Better weight, better balance, better suited to my particular style. Besides me, Rob sticks as many knives into his coat pockets as he can fit.

"No food, no water, no additional clothes," mutters Orion as he circles the horn. "Looks like we have to make the sponsors happy."

"Or we'll have to search the grounds," says Citrine as she peers out of one of the windows. "I can see fountains from here, so water won't be a problem."

"What if it's tainted?" asks Rob.

"Then we test it with these strips," says Orion as he tosses a pack to his ally. "And then we purify it with iodine or boil it on that camp stove."

"Oh," says Rob in a slightly awed voice. "Right. Yeah." He seems slightly overwhelmed to have the bounty of the bloodbath at his disposal. Not surprising, when Sixes have a reputation of going down fast and hard.

"Hey guys, guess what I found!" Tiller sticks his head out from the Cornucopia, a broad grin on his face.

"Food?" I ask.

"Toys," he says and disappears back into the horn.

The interior of the Cornucopia is a wealth of objects I can't even begin to identify. Tiller tosses me a thin black box about the size of my palm. "What's this?"

"PCD. Personal Communication Device. We use them on the fishing boats to keep in touch with the shore authorities. Turn it on. No, that button there."

I press the button and a green button lights up. I hold it to my ear and Tiller starts rattling off nonsense. I hear him beside me, but his voice chimes into my ear from the box as well.

"Enough for all of us," says Tiller. Now we'll never be out of contact."

Citrine puts on a pair of goggles. "Woah," she says. "What is this?"

I put on a similar pair and suddenly everything is a blaze of colours. Dark blues and purples for the horns, a low orange for the bodies of the tributes outside, and my allies are beacons of red, orange, yellow.

"Thermal vision glasses," says Rob in awe as he puts on his own pair. "They register heat signatures, not light, so camouflage or staying still and quiet can't hide you. The Peacekeepers in Six use them when they raid the drug dens in the Lower City."

On television, District 6 is always portrayed as a quaint, cultured city stuck in a charming sense of nostalgia. I am not surprised to hear this isn't accurate and I suddenly suspect where Rob got his knife fighting skills.

There are wires and batteries, heat lamps and binoculars, plastic jugs of chemicals and every type of electronic gadget imaginable. It's fortunate for us that neither of the tributes from 3 showed any sign of being a mad genius. Their mentors are probably cursing the air blue right now.

Mercury finds the greatest treasure, but Orion claims it right away. A small tablet, unimpressive until the center button is pushed and a pleasant female voice chimes out 'The Ballroom.' The screen shows the outline of the room we're in from above, with a red dot identifying our location at the horn. The rest of the screen is black. Orion takes the tablet through one of the doors and confirms that it's a map that will grow larger and more detailed the more of the arena we explore.

"We should get hunting," says Tiller. "The bodies will start to stink soon."

"Shouldn't one of us stay to guard the supplies?" asks Rob.

Orion shakes his head. "They won't remove the bodies until we're all gone. We have to risk it at this point. I think we're fine though. We can carry most of the weapons and I don't think any of the cannon fodder will have much use for," he squints at a jug. "Potassium nitrate. Enobaria?"

I shrug. "Might as well start. I saw some packs on the other side of the horn, so we can at least carry as much as we can. Besides, I'm hungry. Don't suppose there's a kitchen somewhere in this place."

"And clothes," says Citrine. "You all look a fright. I'm not looking forward to these rags rotting off us in a couple of weeks."

We stuff as much as we can into the packs and assemble. Mercury gives a disgusted glance towards the smear that two hours ago was Kerry Rheys. "Ugh. They'll have a great time scraping that off the floor."

I haven't spared a thought to the fact that the girl from 8 suicided herself out of the Games, but now I see Cecelia in my mind and hear her cold assertion that I wouldn't have to worry about killing her sister. There's no way I'm the only one who knows what happened and no way her family won't pay the price.

"I saw her before it happened," I say in an amused tone. "She was shaking like a broken motor. Surprised she didn't tumble off herself. Idiot."

All I can do. I put the Rheys sisters out of my mind as Orion leads us out of the ballroom.

The door leads into a circular domed atrium with more doors leading out in other directions. We pick one and end up in a long corridor lined with statues. More doors lead into galleries, closets, bedrooms, dining halls. At one point Orion pulls aside a tapestry to reveal a secret passageway.

"It's a palace," says Rob in an awed tone.

"An estate," says Citrine. "We haven't even made it outside to the gardens yet."

We search the palace for hours and come up with nothing. Orion frequently checks the electronic map and doubles back so we can check every nook and cranny. There's nothing but endless halls and staircases and old-fashioned furniture.

My stomach is rumbling when we come across a bathroom on one of the upper floors. Citrine gives a shriek of delight at the sight of the working toilet and sink with hot running water.

"You know, I have to say, they've set us up with quite a spread this year," says Citrine as she wrings out her hair and motions forward. I start washing the dried blood off my arms as she continues. "After the last couple of years I was a little worried, but look at this! Five star accommodations!"

Last year's arena was a stinking jungle swarming with bloodsucking insects and poisonous reptiles. The year before was a scorching ruined city where the only water was sewage and acid rains. The Capitol converts arenas to vacation resorts after the Games. I'm guessing there have been complaints.

"Well, don't get used to it," mutter as I towel off. "The Gamemakers give, and the Gamemakers take away." The most beautiful arenas have always had the most inventive traps, and I have no desire to go tumbling through a trapdoor into a mutt den because the Gamemakers think we have it too easy.

The sun is setting through the arched windows when we make another discovery in one of the empty bedrooms. A large walk-in closet with stacks of clothes on the shelves. Citrine gives another sigh of relief and I almost walk straight inside until Orion grabs my arm and nods towards the floor. My breath leaves me in a huff when I see the crisscross of red lights.

"Booby-trapped," says Rob, once again displaying his talent of stating the blatantly obvious.

"Not for me," says Citrine as she tugs her dress from her shoulders, letting it pool around her ankles. She steps out in just her panties and begins a series of quite frankly astonishing gymnastics through the lines of light. She pulls down various articles of clothing, a shirt here, a pair of trousers there, until her arms are overflowing and she makes her way out. She loses her balance at the very end and stumbles forward but Rob catches her. Conveniently on her breasts.

"Naughty boy," she says, but she hands him a shirt and trousers anyway and he strips out of his bloody tux. "And a pair for Mercury, and a pair for Tiller, and of course a pair for Enobaria. And none for Orion. You'll have to just go naked, stud."

Orion gives her a look, strips down to his underwear and walks straight into the closet. I wait for the sound of mutts or smashing wood or sirens, but in a minute Orion steps back out with a shirt and trousers. He gives Citrine a wink as she pouts. But he sticks the shirt in his back pocket anyway.

Citrine flicks a knife out and my filthy dress falls from my shoulders, leaving me as naked as she is. I know what's expected of me and help her dress as she does the same for me with many winks and accidental brushes of skin. Unfortunately there were no shoes so I have to continue barefoot until I find a shoe closet or a sponsor feels particularly generous.

The sound of the national anthem rings through the palace. We look around until Tiller sticks his head out a window and motions us to join him.

The screen with the seal of Panem hovers over the grounds. The faces start to appear. The girl from 3. Hera. The girls from 5 and 6. Both from 7. Kerry. The boy from 9. The girl from 11.

"Seven girls out, two boys," says Mercury with a slight smirk.

"Let's put you in pumps and see you try to survive a bloodbath," mutters Citrine.

Mercury immediately swaps his shoes for his partners and totters around the room, doing an accurate impression of Citrine's interview. We laugh and applaud and even Citrine rolls her eyes and chucks one of her crystal bracelets at him.

Nothing comes soaring down to us. No parachutes. No food.

"Rob and I take first watch," says Orion. "So get some sleep, boys and girls. Looks like tomorrow will be a fun, fun day."

I find a soft patch on the floor and pull out one of the sleeping bags I found at the Cornucopia. I huddle down in the polyester and close my eyes.

I don't think I sleep but it seems like only minutes until Citrine is whispering that it's our watch. We take our positions in the hall outside as the dawn light breaks through the windows, announcing the start of another fun, fun day.

* * *

**AN: Going from the pre-Games chapters to the Arena is always a bit of a jolt, so thanks for your patience waiting for this one. Also, I know I'm behind in replying for reviews, but know that I'm still appreciating each one.**

**Any big surprises in the bloodbath? Be sure there are going to be some down the line for Enobaria and her erstwhile friends.**


	13. Chapter 13

The grand ballroom is sparkling when we return on the morning of the second day of the Games. The bodies from the bloodbath are long gone, the floor scrubbed clean of the blood and gore. The scorch mark under Kerry Rheys' pedestal is still present, despite obvious attempts to remove it. The Cornucopia looms in the center of the room, gleaming and golden and very, very empty.

Orion and I share a significant look. Tiller whistles.

"So, either the outliers are cleverer than we thought or the Gamemakers took everything back," he says.

"Or both," says Citrine. "We don't know if any snuck back and raided what was left."

"No way an outlier carried everything out with no one noticing," Rob interjects. "No way."

Mercury sneers at him. "I hate to break it to you, trackrat, but you _are _an outlier."

"Watch your mouth," Orion growls.

The boy from 1 glares at him. "I said we should have left a guard near the doors."

"You didn't say any such thing."

"I said it to Tiller."

"What, when you were shoving his spear up his skinny little-"

"Enough," I say as I step forward and hold up my hands. "Boys, enough. We can all play nice in the sandbox." I glance at Orion. "Mercury is right, we should have left a guard at the ballroom doors last night. Rob is right, there's no way all the outliers together could have taken everything from the Cornucopia, let alone one or two. Citrine is right, we have no idea if everything was taken by the Gamemakers or if there's a kid from Twelve out there with a harpoon, so we're all going to be extra cautious from here on out. There now, everyone happy?"

"No," mutters Mercury.

"You're never happy," I say as I run my fingers through my short strip of hair. It still feels weird.

"Besides," Citrine says as she sits down on a windowsill, carefully adjusting herself so the morning light shines through her hair. "If we armed up any more we wouldn't have a chance of catching anyone. We'd be clanking so much they'd hear us a hundred yards off."

I give a snort. She does have a point. I'm satisfied with my sword and the dirks tucked into the pockets of my trousers, but compared to the others I'm practically naked. Citrine has a half-dozen knives, her own sword, and the glaive Hera tried to kill me with, Orion has his massive bastard sword strapped across his back plus other assorted blades, Tiller likewise has a brace of spears, and Rob has knives in places I didn't know knives could be kept. Only Mercury has satisfied himself with less than anyone, with his rapier and a single knife. He's either confident that he needs nothing else or hiding some extra skill. I've already resolved to watch him closer than anyone.

"We're all just a bit on edge after twenty-four hours without food," I say as I give my sword a twirl around my fingers.

"I'm hungry," announces Rob to no one in particular.

"Hungry in the Hunger Games, what a damn surprise," says Mercury, but then he crosses his arms. "Wouldn't say no to some food. You think the sponsors are waiting it out? I say we go out onto the grounds and hunt around. There has to be something, they'd never have a barren arena and keep back sponsor food, it'd go too fast."

"No," says Orion. "We keep hunting. This is a message. We have work to do."

Mercury looks mutinous and Citrine shoots me a quick look. "What do you say, Baria?" she asks.

Something twinges at the familiar nickname. I brush it away. "We hunt for the cannon fodder," I say. "One more kill. If nothing comes down we head out to the grounds and start foraging. Agreed?"

The last is a courtesy only, this isn't a democracy, but no one challenges me, not even Mercury. We decide to split off into three teams of two to cover more area. Orion goes with Rob, Tiller with Mercury, and Citrine and I pair up. We all test our personal communication devices and, once Orion is satisfied, we split up and thread our way through the labyrinthine palace.

Citrine and I follow Orion and Rob and head east according to the electronic map. We reach a spiral staircase and the boys head up, taking the map. Citrine and I go down and soon find ourselves in the palace cellars. The walls down here are bare stone, arching over our heads. I have no trouble moving in darkness but Citrine pulls out an electric lamp, sending pale bluish light dancing across the walls. I almost tell her to put it out and rely on my night vision when I see the glint of pale silver wires stretched across the floor. I never would have seen them. I point them out to Citrine and we step over them together.

The search is fruitless on all ends. The boys check in with us every twenty minutes or so. There's no sign of any of the other tributes. My hunger and my aggravation are getting to me, and I have to stop twice to take deep breaths and find my center. Citrine nearly triggers another wire trap as we search through a storeroom full of empty barrels.

We end up in a long room full of separated compartments that I suspect is a kennel. It resembles one I cleaned out with Declan during our suspension how many weeks – months? Years? – ago. I'm poking through the straw with my sword, hoping for a squeal or cry when Citrine speaks.

"Baria? Turn around very slowly, and keep your sword up." The end of her warning is cut off by the growls.

Two large dogs – mutts, obviously, no natural dogs have blood-red fur – slink out of the darkness. Slaver runs from their jaws. They give us intelligent, unnatural looks.

"I'll take the left," says Citrine as casually as if she were picking out shoes. "Try not to knock over the lantern."

I raise my sword and the beast on the right lunges at me. One shift of weight, one slash, and the mutt is lying in a pool of its own black blood. Citrine toys with hers, letting it get close before sticking it through the guts with her glaive.

"Messy," I say as the stink rises. "Guess we're not the only ones getting a little bored –"

I'm cut off as Citrine shoves me against the wall. My hands go for my dirks but before I can do anything rash I realize it's not an attack, she's just kissing me. Then I realize she's kissing me, and I push her away.

Her face is amused in the bluish light. "What's the matter, Two? Never kissed girls before?"

The honest answer is 'no,' but I just shrug. "Is this really the place?"

"It's the perfect place," Citrine says. "Private." She presses her body slowly against mine, I feel each curve of her hips and breasts and the solid muscles tensed up beneath.

Her lips brush up against my ear. "I'm starving and it's worth a try and we don't want a bored audience, do we?" she whispers. Her lips move to mine and well, she has a point. So I kiss her back.

It's…different. Not unpleasant, Citrine is certainly talented. I feel a bit sorry for her, my kissing experience isn't anything to boast about, but she leads and I follow. But no matter how deep we kiss, where our hands roam, it just feels wrong. Not because it's with a girl, I think. But it's not 2. All my kisses have been behind the walls of the Institute or under the sky with only the mountains to see.

She breaks away. "We'll practice," she says with a suggestive little wink and a laugh. "Now let's get out of here, it's really starting to stink."

"Do they teach you that in One?" I ask as I follow her back into the cellars.

"That and more," she replies without looking back. "How else is a girl from the pearls farms going to come to the Capitol? Girls like me don't have that sort of privilege. _We _have to earn it. It's not just handed to us like…others."

Something tells me I'm pushing into personal territory, the live feed in the Capitol is probably switching off us and I should try to get us back on air, but I can't help my own curiosity. "Others like Mercury?"

Citrine doesn't falter. "Mercury is a Dustell. A lower branch, but still a member of a Great House. They're expected to have other talents." She gives me her trademark predator's grin. "Don't let that fool you though. He's still a threat, maybe even the biggest."

"I won't forget," I say as my PCD chirps. I answer it. "Malachite."

"We've got something," comes Orion's voice from the other end. "Third floor, east wing, hurry up, Rob will flag you down."

Citrine's white teeth glow in the dark as she smiles. "Finally."

We make our way back to the spiral staircase and ascend to the third floor. Rob is waiting for us. We follow him back to the other three boys, who are kneeling outside a large oak door.

"About time," Mercury starts but Orion makes a violent motion with his hand and he shuts up.

Orion holds up two fingers – at least two tributes in the other room – then points to himself, then Citrine and me, then Tiller and Rob, and finally Mercury to watch our backs. Orion pulls the brass doorknob and works it open. There's just enough room to squeeze through when the hinges give a loud creak. We all wince. So much for the element of surprise.

Orion slips in, then Citrine, then myself. I let my eyes adjust. It's a large library, with several big oak desks, a marble fireplace, and walls covered in shelves full of books and antiquities. Once we're all inside, Orion motions for us to spread out and search.

It doesn't take long. I can hear the ragged breathing, the barely repressed whimpers of fear. I don't even need to see the twitching curtain before I stride over and pull back the heavy cloth. I vaguely recognize the sniffling, cowering tribute as the boy from 12 before I grab the collar of his tuxedo and toss him into the room where Tiller restrains him. Almost simultaneously Orion reaches under one of the desks and pulls out another boy. This one had enough sense to shed his tuxedo and is in just his underwear; he's also slathered himself with some sort of oil. He slips out of Orion's grip twice until Rob knocks him to the floor. Orion rests the point of his sword on the boy's neck and he lies still.

"Twelve and Five," says Citrine as she inspects a hangnail. "Anyone else?"

"Check the rest of the room, but I think that's it," says Orion.

I turn away just in time to see a bust of President Snow flying at my head. I raise my arm instinctively and it smashes against my forearm as another tribute darts out from inside the fireplace towards the door. I make a desperate swing with my sword but miss. Citrine sticks out her glaive and the girl goes sprawling into the carpet. Citrine walks over almost casually and grabs a hank of her hair, dragging the screaming tribute across the room and depositing her by the others.

"Five and the full Twelve set," amends Orion. He glances at me. "You okay, Malachite?"

"No thanks to you," I say as I rub my wrist. I look down at our prey. "Let's do this."

"We should make it special," says Citrine. "I call the little girl. I'm going to make her pretty."

To her credit, the girl from 12 simply stares down at the carpet. Her district partner starts to wail, thrashing in Tiller's grasp before losing heart entirely.

Orion hauls the boy from 5 to his feet. Mercury gives our catches a disdainful look.

"Pitiful, the lot of them. I say we let Six take care of them."

Citrine objects vocally. Rob looks startled. "Me? Why me?"

Mercury gives him a coy little smile and raises his rapier, pressing it against Rob's collarbone. "Because I want proof that you're not dead weight, and you haven't even killed one yet."

"Neither have you," Citrine scoffs.

Mercury gives his wrist a little flick and the boy from 12 goes silent, his throat slashed open. Tiller lets his body fall to the ground as the cannon fires.

"Remedied. Your turn, Six."

Rob gives an uncomfortable shrug, but he pulls out two of his knives. His eyes dart between the two captured cannon fodder tributes.

"Traitor."

The girl's voice is low and venomous. She looks straight at Rob. "You filthy traitor. Do it, you turncoat. Wish I could've seen what's coming to you. Hope it hurts when it's your turn." She gives a half insane little laugh. Beside her the boy from 5 keeps quiet but his eyes are likewise filled with hatred.

Rob is now visibly unnerved. Mercury is fingering the hilt of his sword, Citrine just appears bored and I can tell Orion is about to interfere. Problem is, Mercury is right, Rob has been dead weight so far and the last thing the alliance can afford is one of our members appearing weak to the audience. I reach out and grab the girl.

"Citrine, get the boy. Six, you follow."

I can hear Citrine obeying my order as I drag the girl out into the hall. She doesn't resist. Citrine brings the boy out. Rob follows, hanging back. The rest of the alliance watches from the door.

I let go of the girl. "Citrine, let him go."

There's an outraged sound from the door but it's cut off. Citrine raises an eyebrow. I give her a nod and she releases her grip on the boy from 5.

I nod at them. "Go. Run."

The boy gapes at us. The girl's face grows dark. "What is this, some sort of trick?"

"If I were you, I'd be running _now,_" I growl.

They don't need any more encouragement. Both tributes start stumbling down the length of the hall.

I turn to Rob. "Pick one."

His mouth opens slightly. "Enobaria…"

"Pick one or die yourself."

The knife flashes in Rob's hand. He takes a deep breath, steps back, and his wrist flicks. The girl from 12 drops like a broken puppet with the knife in her back. The cannon fires. The boy from 5 turns a corner and disappears.

Rob is close to hyperventilating, I can tell. I put a hand on his shoulder and take care to make my voice extra friendly. "Good choice. You remember her from the interview, right? She was smart, very smart. She was a threat. You did well."

"You still let one go," says Mercury as he glares down the hall where the boy from 5 disappeared.

I snag an arm around his waist. "That's called 'tactics,' Mercury my love. You see, it'd be boring if we burned through the cannon fodder too quickly. And I reckon little Five will head straight out into the grounds where it'll be easier to find him. Besides, you should be happy. This means you get to live a little bit longer." I give him a kiss on the cheek. He pushes me away, but not in time for me to miss the faint flush on the back of his neck.

Citrine is giving me a highly amused look as she points to the ceiling. I look up. Hidden panels have opened and parachutes are raining down on us. Everyone gets at least one. It's mostly food, although Rob gets a new knife. It seems to calm him more than anything else has. Orion looks up with a huge smile and thanks his sponsors. We all follow suit. I get a package of beef jerky, a small loaf of warm bread, and a little bowl with three strawberries. I stuff the jerky into my pack, swap a strawberry for one of Citrine's peaches, and pool the rest in the middle. There's enough to make a fairly decent meal for everyone, at least to settle our stomachs. With food in our bellies and two more kills under our collective belts, everyone is in an obviously better mood.

Orion polishes off a strawberry. "I reckon we should take this party out onto the grounds," he says. "See if there's a regular food source out there and try to smoke some of the others out."

No one objects and so we pack out what's left of the food and head towards the grand foyer of the palace. I hang back a bit and pull my district partner aside.

I lower my voice so the others can't hear. "Quit thinking with your dick, Baker."

He frowns. "Mind your own business, Malachite."

"It is my business. Indulge your manly hormones all you want, but when it starts to affect your decision making, we have a problem. You made me be the villain today. I don't like that. We didn't bring Six along for you to coddle. Remember that."

I speed up and rejoin the others. No one says anything.

The main doors of the palace are tall bronze, depicting scenes from some ancient battle. Appropriate. We step out and I blink in the harsh sunlight. The lawn is soft and luxurious under my bare feet. A breeze plays across my face. I take a deep breath. I know better than to trust appearances in the arena, I'm not some twelve-year-old from 9, but after the confining, twisting passages of the palace I'm just grateful to be outdoors.

The gardens are lush, beautiful, and bursting with life. We fill our canteens at a lily pond, test the water for contamination, then drink deeply when the strips indicate it's safe. We spend the rest of the day combing our way through the rose gardens, the fountains, and wide lawns of wildflowers.

Even here there are visible dangers, though. There are tracker jacker nests hanging high above in the branches of the trees. Rob gawps at them, presumably having never seen one despite the horror stories from the Dark Days that still circulate through the districts. I swear I see eyes watching me from inside a hedge at one point, deep, purple, unnatural eyes, but I shove my sword through and meet nothing. When I pull it out there are only tiny lavender flowers trembling.

Tiller finds the orchard in the late afternoon as he scouts ahead. We have to climb a small rise before we reach a dozen trees arranged in a circle, all bursting with bright red and green apples. Rob reaches out eagerly, licking his lips.

Mercury knocks his hand away. "Don't be a fool," he says. "Remember the Fiftieth?"

A collective shiver runs down our spines at the thought of the last Quarter Quell where all of the beautiful ripe fruits were laced with poison and the tributes dropped like flies in the first few days. Even if they aren't poison, it doesn't mean they haven't been tampered with. A few years back another girl won her Games by painting nightlock juice on the otherwise edible plants.

"Well how are we supposed to know?" asks Tiller as he eyes the fruit with the look of someone facing a very horny bear.

Citrine pulls out a knife. "Only one way. First drop or first blood."

She tosses the knife to me. I catch it deftly and send it spinning towards Orion, who sends back to Citrine, who tosses to Till, who tosses to Mercury, who spins it towards Rob a bit harder than necessary, who catches it with a wince as the blade digs into his finger.

"Be grateful it wasn't an axe or we'd be calling you Three-Fingered Robbie," says Citrine. "Okay city boy. Pick a nice one."

I glance at Orion, half-expecting him to step in and offer to eat the fruit himself. He doesn't look at either of us, just inspects his sword for flecks of rust.

Rob shrugs. "Worse ways to go, I guess," he says. He reaches up and plucks an apple. He tosses it a couple times then digs his teeth into it. Juice runs down his chin.

We wait. Stare at him.

He grins sheepishly and takes another bite.

We wait some more.

On the third bite a parachute comes down. It has nothing but a napkin, one of the fancy embroidered kinds that come at the nice restaurants in the Little Capitol. Rob makes a great show of sticking it halfway down his t-shirt and continuing on his apple with his little finger stuck out ridiculously.

"Well, that's as good a sign as any," says Citrine as she picks her own apple. "Although I don't know how they expect me to eat without proper tableware."

Another parachute comes down, with a pretty knife covered in emeralds. "Why thank you, Jade," Citrine says as she cuts her fruit. Mercury rolls his eyes hugely and picks his own fruit. The rest of us follow suit, filling our packs.

Tiller and Mercury want to continue the hunt all night, but Orion and I overrule them in favor of an early night, continuing the hunt in the very early morning when the tributes are asleep or drowsy. We hang around the grove as the sun sets, cleaning our weapons. The anthem plays and the two tributes from 12 appear in the sky before disappearing. I vaguely recall the few times I've seen the lone Victor from 12 on television, a youngish man who's almost always drunk. I'm sure he's deep in his cups tonight. Citrine offers to take first watch and I fall into an uneasy sleep.

The morning search takes us through more gardens, making slow progress as we search behind every pot and bit of statuary. The sun is high in the sky when we climb a rise and reach a long line of hedge, nearly thirty feet tall and extending as far as we can see in both directions.

"Look," says Tiller as he points out to the distance. "See that green line, way out there on the horizon? I reckon it's the same hedge. This is the border."

All I can see is a faint smudge, but Orion gives a nod of assent. If they're right, the whole arena is spread out below us, a patchwork of gardens and lawns with the massive palace complex in the middle.

"It's not very big, is it?" asks Citrine.

Orion grunts. "Big enough," he says. "C'mon, let's follow the hedge for a bit then head back down."

We're taking a break in one of the water gardens when the cannon goes off. We wait, listen, then breathe again. I let a small sigh of relief escape. A death will entertain the audience for a while, and we probably won't be expected to provide more for the rest of the day.

Indeed, the alliance essentially takes the afternoon off. We splash around the water gardens and practice our knife throwing. The boys wrestle. Citrine and I find some shade and she teaches me to braid her hair. She gives me a foot massage in return.

The boy from 8 appears in the sky that night, then vanishes. Rob ticks off on his fingers.

"That's half down. Who's all left besides us?"

"The boy from Five," says Mercury, giving me a glance. "And the girl from Nine, the one you didn't finish at the Cornucopia."

"Both from Ten," I say. "The big one and his partner. They could be together. And the crier from Three."

"The boy from Eleven," Orion says. Silence falls.

Six more, then I stop murdering little kids and start knifing people whose names and lives and hopes and dreams I know.

I take first watch as we settle down in the water gardens. Citrine is asleep almost immediately. Rob volunteers to watch out for Orion as he sleeps. Tiller and Mercury apparently feel safe enough to trust us not to knife them in the back, although they keep their weapons close and their breathing is light.

I sit on the edge of one of the reflecting pools, pulling out a rag and oil I brought from the Cornucopia. I clean my sword, even though it really doesn't need it. After an hour or so, Rob comes and sits next to me.

"Hey, Enobaria? Can I talk to you about something?"

I give a grunt and continue to clean my sword. Rob looks visibly uncomfortable.

"Um…does…does Orion? You know. Does he….um?"

"Does he want to bone you?"

Rob's blush is silvery in the moonlight. I chuckle.

"Oh, I'd say about as much as you want to get frisky with Citrine and me."

The blush is deeper now. I give him a punch in the shoulder. "Oh, you boys. You're never quite as subtle as you'd like to think you are."

Rob plays with one of his knives, flipping it through his fingers. "Can…can you tell him I don't like guys? You know, like that?"

I shrug. "Tell him yourself, you're a big boy. Don't see why you would though."

Rob sighs. "I have a girl, back home. Well, sorta. She's watching."

"And I bet she told you to do anything, anything to come back home," I say in a light, mocking tone.

"Don't, Enobaria," he says.

I almost feel bad for the kid. Even if he's too stupid to figure things out. Besides, why should I put in work to get Orion some action?

Maybe after years of playing wingman for Declan and Pat it's just too engrained in me.

"When it comes to protectors, you could do a lot worse. You're out of your league here, you know that. Orion will keep you as safe as he can, if you give him reason to. He'll carry you through to the end of the Games, and unless you slit his throat as he sleeps, he'll kill you quickly and relatively painlessly. You could do a lot worse, like I said."

He looks at me. "And you, Enobaria. How would you kill me?"

"I'd slip a knife in your ribs, but I'd kiss you as I did it. So would Citrine. We'll even let you choose who gets the honor if you'd like."

Rob seems to know this is as good as he's going to get. He gives a wry half-smile. "Thanks, Enobaria," he says as he slips off the edge of the reflecting pool.

I keep my watch, rubbing specks of non-existent rust off the edge of my sword, and ignoring the deep, heaving breaths of someone who is trying very hard not to cry.


	14. Chapter 14

We find the girl from District 10 on the morning of the fifth day. Citrine claims the kill, since she's the one who suggested searching through the water gardens on the east side of the arena in the first place. Orion and Mercury give some good-natured protests but eventually relent. Citrine borrows a few knives from Rob, strips down to her underwear, and drags the sobbing girl by her hair behind an ornamental hedge for some privacy.

I sit on the edge of a lily pond, sharpening and polishing my sword with supplies from the Cornucopia. I ignore the symphony of shrieks and cries from beyond the hedge. After an hour, Rob comes and sits down next to me.

"Why can't she just kill her and be done with it?" he asks.

I don't answer, but my mind's eye remembers a fat old man with violently pink hair in Samson's promising Citrine and me a nice picnic lunch if we make a kill last over two hours. I keep polishing my sword.

Eventually the screams diminish into barely audible whimpers. The cannon goes off an hour later. Citrine reappears by the lily pond, her body artfully splattered with deep crimson blood, her hair perfect. She hands Rob his knives back. Rob takes them with a look at the girl from 1 absent his usual lust.

Orion stands. "Let's clear out so they can collect the body. But first clean up, Citrine, you reek. "

Citrine smirks. "Don't you like me in red, stud?" she asks as she wraps a stained arm around his waist.

Orion responds by lifting her up and kissing her deeply. They tumble into the lily pond, splashing the rest of us as they hump each other over their soaked clothes. The water is soon tinged with pink. Mercury gives a snort of disgust.

"Do you have to front of everyone?" he asks.

"There's plenty of room for more," says Citrine from the tangle of limbs.

Tiller shrugs and pulls off his shirt. "Why not?" he asks and slides into the pool. Soon Citrine is between him and Orion and their hands are on her, under her shirt, on each other, their lips finding necks, sides, breasts.

Rob watches with an odd look. Mercury gives me a glance.

"I'd offer myself, Malachite, but I don't think we'd be able to do anything without breaking down in pained laughter."

I smile. "That's okay. I prefer men, anyways."

Rob gives a snort. Mercury stretches his lithe frame and smirks. "Better tell Citrine."

I shrug. "She seems pretty occupied at the moment."

"Threeways aren't your thing?"

"I prefer knowing where to keep my attention."

Mercury's smirk grows even wider. "Understandable, but then, you've never met the Delacroix twins."

Citrine, Tiller, and Orion finish up and wade out of the pool. Citrine is now distinctly less red.

"What was that?" I whisper as she pulls her dry t-shirt back over herself.

"Insurance, love," she replies before giving me a soft kiss.

Three parachutes come down moments later, each with a pair of leather boots with a nice tread. Citrine, Orion, and Tiller sort them out and pull them on and I'm suddenly wishing I had dealt with the awkward sexual tension and joined them in the pond. My feet are callused and hard after years in the Institute so I'm not suffering by any means on the soft lawns and cold marble floors of the arena, but I'll be at a disadvantage if the Gamemakers throw any surprises at us that require sprinting or climbing.

"So, where to now, fearless leaders?" asks Mercury. I notice he looks at me as he speaks.

I have my answer ready. "Let's try the carriage house again. Maybe they'll let us inside this time."

We found the carriage house yesterday, just off the west side of the palace complex. A small, ornate building with adjoining stables, Citrine and Mercury identified it as a place where old-fashioned carriages and chariots would be kept. Apparently the wealthy families of District 1 have a use for that sort of thing. Citrine and I peered through the windows before we attempted to enter and saw nothing living. But the moment Tiller touched the doorknob a forcefield blasted him back onto the ground. I tried breaking into one of the windows and ended up on my back muttering about the pretty clouds as my arm went numb. We abandoned our attempts after that. It's pretty obvious when the Gamemakers don't want a tribute somewhere, for whatever reason. And if we couldn't get in, it was unlikely that any of the outliers had. None of them had exactly demonstrated themselves as worth protecting.

"Okay," says Mercury. "But you're trying the door. There are only two things that belong flying through the air. Birds and hovercraft."

I shrug. "I can't help that my balls are bigger than yours, Dustell."

Citrine laughs and takes my arm as we descend the slope towards the palace complex. We snack on apples and rehydrate along the way. It takes half-an-hour to reach the carriage house. It's smaller by far than the palace a hundred yards off, but no less ornate. It stands on a small rise, ringed by a grove of elm trees that provide cover until we're twenty yards from the door. We spread out through the trees, watching for any hint of movement. The house stands silent. Threatening only by its lack of visible dangers.

"Well, go on," whispers Mercury from his position next to mine.

I roll my eyes and step out from the tree line, walking slowly up to the carriage house. There's not a sound besides the rustling of the leaves in a faint breeze. The big oak door looms in front of me, the handle brass and inconspicuous. I reach my hand out.

Cold metal meets my grip. It turns with my hand. The door swings open.

My heart thumps louder as I stare into the dark of the carriage house. I'm more apprehensive by the fact that the door opened than I was a moment ago when I expected to be blasted back onto the ground again.

"Well," says Orion as he steps out cheerfully from the trees. "That's as good an invitation as any. Maybe they'll have dinner ready inside."

He walks into the carriage house. I follow, the rest of the Careers close behind. We're in a large open space where I assume the carriages would normally be kept, but there's nothing here but high-beamed ceilings and a dusty stone floor.

Tiller appears at my side. "What is that?" he asks. "You smell it?"

I do. The stench of chemicals invaded my nostrils from the moment I walked inside. They get stronger as I cross the house, where there's a narrow wooden staircase leading up to a loft.

"Spread out and search the place," says Orion as he joins me at the bottom of the staircase. We walk up together. There's another door at the top, heavy oak. I take the doorknob. There's no force field this time, but it's locked.

"You think there's someone in there?" I ask my district partner.

"Someone. Something," he says with a grimace. I don't blame him. Despite the sheer size of the palace complex, this is the first locked door we've come across. And in the Games, locked doors usually mean something very, very bad.

Orion backs down a few steps, then hurtles up at the door, driving his shoulder into it. A loud crash echoes through the carriage house. Someone below gives a startled shout. Orion rolls his eyes and makes another attempt. And a third. The door doesn't give.

"I thought you were supposed to be smart," I say as Orion rubs his shoulder. "Can't think of a way past a locked door other than big manly muscle?"

Orion gives me a dirty look. "Why don't you try knocking and announce that tea is ready, Malachite?" he says.

I approach the door press my ear to the wood. Silence. I peer under the crack and see only dust. Nothing comes from examining the keyhole either. The only constant is the powerful scent of chemicals wafting from the door.

"Malachite! Baker!" comes Mercury's voice from below us. "Come take a look!"

We descend the stairs and follow his voice out to where the carriage house connects to a small stable. The scent of chemicals is replaced by one of hay. The stalls are empty. Mercury is pointing inside one of them.

"Someone's been in here," he says.

The hay inside the stall has been arranged into a pile, with the slight indent of a body of indeterminate size. Orion peers at the ground.

"No blood," he says. "So probably not the Nine girl. Someone with bread," he says as he picks a few small crumbs off the ground. He nibbles one. "Not stale yet. They were here recently. Yesterday or today."

We all give each other apprehensive looks. If the unknown tribute was inside this place yesterday than the Gamemakers are protecting him or her, for reasons unknown.

"Spread out. Search everywhere," says Orion.

We do, but it only takes a few more minutes, even with stomping on the walls and floor looking for secret hidey holes. When the search proves fruitless, Orion leads us out into the sunlight again.

"They could be nearby," says Tiller. Watching us. Waiting for us to leave."

Orion looks at me and I know he's thinking of the locked room at the top of the loft. "They could be close. We'll comb the woods and then camp out here tonight in case they come back."

Mercury is looking at the carriage house with an expression of distaste. "I say we burn it."

"I like that idea," says Tiller.

Orion's expression grows even graver. I'm inclined to agree with his unspoken thoughts. The Gamemakers in the past have tended to disapprove of tributes trying to destroy parts of their arena.

"I third it," says Rob.

"This isn't a democracy," Orion snaps. He turns to me. "Malachite?"

I remember the fumes of chemicals that permeated the carriage house. My mind's eye is suddenly filled with a vision of an enormous fireball, spreading beyond control. And I remember clips I've seen from another Games, the Twenty-Sixth I think, and the boy from 5 whipping the arena into a firestorm with a brand in hand and the wind at his back and I'm suddenly very nervous.

"I don't like this," I say. "I say we go back to the palace and keep hunting."

"I'm with Enobaria," says Citrine.

"Baker?" He's the deciding vote. The others won't go against both of the pack leaders, but if he votes yes….

"Burn it down," he says.

The decision made, we spread through the grove to collect small branches for kindling. My heart is thumping but nothing swoops down to pluck out my eyes, the ground doesn't open under my feet, no twisters come to tear us to pieces.

Several bundles are stacked against the carriage house in a short time. Orion stands near the door. "Who has the matches?" he asks. "Or a lighter?"

The growl rumbles from deep within the grove as he speaks. I want to laugh. Of course they were waiting. Waiting for us to be off our guard.

The mutt that comes slinking out of the woods is a bear, or as near to a bear as I can imagine, although it's grace and slit eyes and tawny fur remind me of the mountain cats who roam through District 2. It faces us and rears up on its hind legs, fully twelve feet tall, and gives a bellow of rage.

I start giving orders.

"Long pole arms, down in front. Try to gut it before it can reach us." Citrine and Tiller step forward and kneel, their glaive and spear pointed towards the massive mutt. "Rob, behind them. If it charges, get it in the eye." Mercury, on my right. Orion on the left. I've got center."

It's a bit unnerving to see my allies all fall to my command without argument, and I push down the urge to giggle. The mutt's eyes rove between us, as if trying to find the weakest link in our armor.

"Come eat some steel, pretty boy," I taunt and as if on command the mutt leaps forward.

One massive paw bats away Citrine's glaive and sends her tumbling back. Tiller's spear sinks into its side but the mutt barrels on, tearing the shaft from his grasp. The boy from 4 jumps back and grabs for another spear from his brace.

The mutt gives a howl as Rob's knife sinks into its right eye. Half-blind, enraged by pain, it tramples down Rob and launches itself at the only tribute it can now see – Orion.

My district partner is slammed against the wall of the carriage house. The mutt bears down on him, its jaws wide. With no room to maneuver Orion abandons his sword and holds the beast's jaws with his bare hands, trying to pull them apart. I stab down at its neck, but its fur is thick and the wound superficial. Citrine is beside me, lodging her glaive into its ribs, but she clearly misses major organs as the mutt howls and bats us away. We fall to the ground together as Orion's feet slide from under him and the mutt resumes its attempt to maul him.

Rob sprints by me as I struggle to my feet. He leaps at the side of the mutt, clutching its fur and using the shaft of Citrine's glaive as a foothold to climb onto its back. The mutt doesn't even register his weight until the boy from 6 crawls forward to its neck and the knife comes down into its good eye.

The scream of pain is mirrored by Rob's cry of fear as the mutt rears back onto its hind legs. The boy from 6 tumbles to the ground and crawls backwards on his hands as the mutt abandons Orion and turns to Rob. It finds him on scent, or by whatever programming replaces its brain, and its jaws are coming down on him, and Citrine is screaming, and I'm swinging at its muzzle, and Orion is leaping through the air with his sword and a howl of rage.

The mutt gives one shudder of pain and slumps to the ground, dead. Rob lays on the ground beneath it, his eyes wide, his hand upraised, still clutching the knife that he drove into the bear mutt's mouth and up into its brain.

"I change my vote," he says. "Let's not burn parts of the arena down."

Orion and I pull the boy out from under the carcass. I shoot a look towards Mercury, who's leaning against the wall of the carriage house.

"Thanks for the back-up, Dustell."

He shrugs. "You had it in hand. You told me to guard the right. I would've gotten in the way."

The fact that he's not technically wrong makes me even angrier, and I thrust my sword into the mutt's carcass a few times to vent out my feelings.

Citrine retrieves her glaive and sidles up to Orion. "That was dreadful. Look at me, I'm all trembling. Hold me?"

But the girl from 1 is shoved rudely aside as Rob grabs the back of Orion's head and brings his mouth towards his. Orion grabs his shoulders and pulls him in for a kiss more fierce than anything he gave Citrine. Mercury grumbles something that sounds like _Again?_

I slide over to my ally. "Nice try," I whisper.

She giggles. "Naw. There's enough to share and I can't begrudge our little friend finally cottoning on to what's good for him."

Rob doesn't leave Orion's side as we all (save Mercury) bandage what superficial injuries we sustained in the mutt attack. Citrine and I are giving each other deep tissue topless massages when two parachutes come down. Citrine gets her picnic basket as promised. Rob gets his own pair of boots. Now Mercury and I are the only two still barefoot.

"What do you reckon?" asks Citrine as she polishes off a roast beef sandwich and I crunch into another apple. "Early night or late?"

Orion looks up to where the sun is starting to sink down in the afternoon sky. "Let's do one more sweep of the palace today," he says. "Then camp out here in case our little outlier friend comes back. Get another start tomorrow before the sun rises and the cannon fodder is drowsy. Malachite?"

I shrug. "No objections, Captain Looselips."

"Stealing that," says Citrine with a grabbing motion as the others give good natured laughter, even Orion.

We pack up and return to the palace as the afternoon wears on. I notice that even though Orion is giving the orders, the others have subtly shifted towards me in the wake of the mutt attack, following my suggestions as we comb wing after wing for hiding tributes. Orion doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he hides it by teasing Rob and sneaking quick gropes between him and Citrine when he knows the cameras are watching.

We find no one in the massive conservatory, through the halls, down the stairs to the cellars, and up into the rows of empty bedrooms and lounges. I'm feeling the familiar frustration but with both a death and a mutt attack today, the audience should be well sated so I don't feel too much on edge.

We walk through a hall of mirrors and crystal chandeliers. Citrine makes sure to stop at the edge to fix her hair from all angles. Rob imitates her in another mirror behind her back. Orion laughs and pulls his boy toy away, pushing him towards the doorway. Rob grabs his arm playfully and shoves him through instead.

I have a vague sense that something is wrong as Orion's foot comes down on a marble tile and it sinks, ever so slightly. And then the explosion.

The air is filled with heat and light and there's a shower of purple and blue sparks like a perverse, deadly flower. I duck and cover my face as several sparks burn my hands and bare feet. My allies are shouting in fear and shock around me. Then I hear something heavy stumbling towards me. I look up and leap out of the way as Orion hurtles past. It takes me a moment to realize that my district partner's legs are on fire.

"Help me!" I scream. There are velvet curtains hanging around the mirrors and I pull at one. Tiller joins me and we drag a length of cloth down and race over to where Orion is now rolling on the ground. Together we smother the flames. I grab Orion under the arms. He gives a scream of pain and I register dimly that his shoulder is dislocated.

I pull him awkwardly to a mirror and prop him up. His eyes are wide, his face completely white. I don't look towards his legs, where the stench of roasted meat is wafting through the air.

"He's in shock." I say. "Get him some water."

Only Rob obeys, pushing his water bottle to his protector's lips. The other three members of the alliance aren't moving. They stare down at us, their muscles as tense as a cat's, their fingers inching down towards the blades at their waists.

The alliance is teetering on a precipice, I know in an instant. When alliance members are badly hurt they're usually abandoned if not finished off and I know that the others are considering eliminating a top competitor before sponsors can interfere. I also know I can't let it happen. I need Orion, for now. I can't control the alliance without him. And I wouldn't put it past Mercury to take out Rob at the same time, tactically it would make sense to eliminate the wild card. But Boudicca's warnings are ringing in my ears. We cannot fracture this early.

"Help me with him. Now," I say clearly.

Citrine slowly takes off her pack and starts retrieving bandages. Mercury's fingers are still inching towards his waistband where his rapier hangs. Tiller hangs back, apparently prepared to follow Mercury's lead.

"Don't even try it, District One. There are still five out there. It's not time yet. We're all friends here. Remember?"

Mercury's fingers inch higher and close around his water bottle. "Cut his trousers off – what's left of them," he says. I give the tiniest sigh of relief.

I keep an eye out for foul play, but Tiller hacks off the smoking remnants of Orion's trousers without fuss, revealing a red and black blistered mass of flesh. The smell is overwhelming. Orion must be in agony but he doesn't let out a whimper of pain as Mercury pours water over the burns. Citrine cuts bandages as Rob holds Orion still and I pop his shoulder back into his socket. He nearly passes out as it pops in, and I will him to stay conscious. If he faints not even I can save him from Mercury and the others.

A panel in the ceiling opens and a flurry of parachutes descend. Burn cream is the first to come. I look at the label and note that it can't be applied for four more hours, until the burned flesh has settled. There are pills as well, to ward off infection and fever, even a new pair of trousers. I vaguely register the sheer amount of wealth that must have gone into these gifts and make a silent toast to Brutus and the rest of Orion's team.

"We have to wait for a few hours before we can apply the cream," I say. "But he needs to take the pills now. And we need more water for his legs."

"Let's move him to a bathroom," says Citrine, but one look at Orion's face and I know he'll never stay conscious if he has to move.

"I'll bring him water," I say. "Give me your canteens and bottles, I'll fill them all up. And we're going to need more food, looks like we're camping here tonight. Tiller, Mercury, take a PCD and go grab some more apples. Citrine, Rob, you're on guard duty. Make sure he doesn't move."

I expect an argument from Mercury at least but he just nods and grabs his pack. Both he and Tiller are visibly shaken, jolted back to the reality of what we're facing. I follow them out onto the grounds.

"What was that?" asks Tiller as we walk past the Cornucopia ballroom. "Gamemaker trap?"

"Yeah, I'd guess so," I say. "Like the wires in the cellar and the trap in the closets."

"We got complacent," growls Mercury. "We got comfortable and it could have been any of us."

I put a hand on his shoulder, suddenly aware of how young he is. "Well, here we are. For now, at least. Move forward. No second guessing, just note our mistakes and fix them."

He nods and actually gives my hand a squeeze as he and Tiller head out into the grounds. I find the nearest bathroom and turn one of the taps. Nothing comes out. Of course.

Tiller and Mercury are gone once I reach the grounds. The fountain outside the main entrance has also gone dry. I bite my lip and head off east, towards the water gardens. If there's any water left in the arena, it should be there. I can't imagine the lily ponds can be drained quickly, but then what do I know of the strange ways of Gamemakers?

The anthem plays as I reach the water gardens and the girl from 10 appears briefly in the sky. The ponds are mercifully full. I fill all my bottles, my nerves on edge. I've been brought here for a reason, but I'm not foolish enough to blunder around looking for whatever trap the Gamemakers have set.

I take a shortcut back through the ornamental hedges and it's by pure accident that I stumble across the boy from 11. He's curled up on the ground, eyes darting this way and that, a small pack at his feet and a blanket around his shoulders. On the ground beside him is a silver platter with half of a three-tier chocolate cake.

His eyes slowly crawl up to my face. I let my water bottles fall to the ground.

"District Two," he says. He does not try to run.

My eyes move between him and the cake.

"It's my birthday," he says simply. He looks away and pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "Just make it quick, okay Two?"

I expect to hear Pat's voice in my head, telling me to kill them all. I hear nothing. Instead I see Citrine covered in blood, a picnic basket sinking down towards her.

I step towards the boy from 11.

Two hours later I walk back into the hall of mirrors. The tiles squeak beneath the soles of my new boots. Orion is awake and aware, one arm in a sling, his good arm around Rob. Citrine is cutting up apples. Mercury and Tiller are tossing a knife between themselves. Tiller looks up and gives a yelp when he sees the state I'm in. Mercury raises an eyebrow.

"Get in a bit of a tussle, Malachite?"

I pass off the water bottles to Rob and hold up the silver platter.

"So," I say with a grin to match the most predatory of Citrine's. "Who wants some cake?

* * *

**Long break between this chapter and the last, I know. Such is the agony of adulting. Thank you all for your patience and continued support. I don't know if I'll ever catch up on responding to reviews so just know I read and appreciate all of them.**

**In the meantime, I'll be finishing work on Gloss and Cashmere's chapters in TVP. I think they're going to be good.**


	15. Chapter 15

It takes three days for Orion to heal fully. In that time we take turns to patrol the arena in pairs, each carrying the map pad and our PCDs to keep in touch with the others. We find nothing and no one.

"Of course, there'd be one less to find if you hadn't let little Five go on the second day," says Mercury with a scowl on his face as he cleans flecks of rust off his rapier.

I don't reply because I don't want an argument when tensions are so high and there's nothing I could really say anyway. At the time I thought that letting the boy from 5 go was a way to play to the cameras; the audience adores it when the Career pack acts outside the stereotypes and it always gets screen time. But wherever he fled to, he's done a very good job of hiding as we pick each other off. I suspect he's attempting to pull a morphling and wait us all out.

The violent tension between the pack has fortunately lightened in the aftermath of Orion's injury. For the first day I was certain that Mercury or Citrine (or both of them together) would make an attempt on my district partner's life. I could see their apprehension as the biggest and strongest tribute in the arena regained his health; Citrine was better at hiding it than her partner, but it was there in the way she grasped her glaive as she flirted. But with Rob and I both keeping an watchful eye and Tiller growing quieter and more reclusive as the hours stretched by, they both knew it wasn't possible to dispatch Orion and keep the pack together.

Orion, clearly sensing the danger, has pulled himself together faster than I believed possible. By the first day he was already doing crunches to keep his strength up and on the second he and Rob went on a short patrol through the palace. They found no one but they returned eating peaches regardless. I can only assume the sponsors were impressed by something other than murder.

On the morning of the third day Orion rises bright and early, stretches and declares himself completely cured. Mercury and Citrine glance at each other as he experimentally swings his sword.

"Let's check out that maze," he says as he gives his sword a final flourish, cutting through a curtain and letting the heavy velvet flutter to the floor.

Citrine and I found the maze yesterday by following the path of a parachute sent down from a hovercraft that briefly appeared before vanishing again. We dashed towards its direction only to draw up when we reached the entrance of the maze. Citrine and I have both seen the replays of every previous Games and there has never been a maze that wasn't full of Gamemaker traps. The entire arena was one a couple decades before I was born. We reported back to the others and agreed that we'd explore it once we were able to travel as a whole pack again.

Orion leads the way out of the palace and circles around the complex towards the north side. He gives me a significant glance and speeds up. I widen my stride and catch up to him.

"I just wanted to say," he mutters under his breath when we're out of earshot of the others, "Thanks. For not letting the Ones take me when I was down. I owe you one."

I know the cameras will all be on us right now, so I give my biggest smile. "I plan to collect one day, Baker. I'd tell you to thank Rob as well but I suspect you've done that in a manner I am not interested in hearing about."

Orion smirks. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, Malachite." He looks back. "He's a good kid. Don't think I don't know I owe him too."

I don't mention that Rob doesn't share the same infatuation, that despite his lack of training he's playing the Game as hard as the rest of us. With luck Orion will let his guard down enough and Rob will slit his throat once District 1 is down and take the matter off my hands.

"So serious," says Citrine as she links her arms between us. "You two need to get to more parties."

The morning is half gone when the high hedges of the maze rise in front of us. It doesn't seem to be made of any natural plant; the leaves are a vivid green laced through with violet veins. I reach out and touch one of the leaves and pull back quickly, hissing. My fingertips are already blistering.

"Well that's one thing already," I say. "The hedge is poison."

We give each other ominous looks, but don't say anything.

"There's a tribute in there," says Mercury. "Let's go in, take care of them, and get out."

"Who do you reckon it is?" asks Tiller. "It's all boys left, right? Five, Three, Ten, and one more."

"The girl from Nine," I say. "She was injured at the Cornucopia but she's made it this far."

"Or it could be more than one of them," says Rob. "They could all be in there. Maybe they made an alliance and that's why we haven't found any more of them."

The wind blows through the poisonous leaves, making a sound that sounds ominously like whispered laughter.

"There's no point in waiting any longer," I say. "Let's go."

I lead the way into the maze. Nothing leaps out and attacks me. I take it as a good sign.

"Should we split up?" asks Rob in a soft voice.

"Don't be such a Twelve," snaps Mercury. "We have no idea how big this place is, or what's in here. If there is an alliance we're going to need everyone together."

"If we lose our way it's over," says Citrine. Her face is somehow much younger than it usually looks. "We could be in here for days. We could starve before we find our way out."

Much to my surprise, Tiller smiles. "Don't they teach you lot anything other than how to lift big rocks and smile pretty for any passing camera?"

I growl at him. "If you have something to say, Four, spit it out already."

Tiller takes one of his javelins and touches the right wall of the maze. "The secret to solving any maze," he says as he starts walking forward, "is to never stop touching the wall. Follow it around any corner, never deviate, never make a better guess. It removes luck from the equation, good and bad. You'll cover every inch of the maze, but you won't ever take a wrong turn twice, or end up in the same place going the same direction. This will take a while, but we will get through it all and out eventually. It should flush out our quarry as well."

I look at Orion. He shrugs and gives a short nod.

"Unless anyone has a better idea, you take the lead, Four," I say. "Mercury, Orion, watch our backs. I don't want any surprises coming around the corners here."

I move towards the front of the pack with Citrine, who looks moderately reassured. The raw fear is gone from her face at least. "Where'd you pick up this trick, Four?" I ask as we take a right turn and move into the depths of the maze.

"Mags," he says then motions for us to be quiet. Wouldn't want to scare off the prey.

We walk through the maze for what must be close to an hour. I suspect it covers much of the northern part of the arena. The foliage changes colors as we enter different sections, but my throbbing fingers don't encourage me to test them. At one point the leaves are a poisonous blue and I swear I can hear hissing. Around the corner it turns a vivid red, and scarlet sap (I tell myself its sap) drips down into puddles that smoke slightly. Still, the changing colors serve as landmarks and confirm that Tiller isn't leading us in circles.

I find myself thinking about the outside world for the first time in days. Dido is probably perched wherever Victors monitor the Games, legs up on her chair, annoying the rest of the mentors. Barty, eyes cold, mouth silent, watching me wind around and around this labyrinth. Lyme, schmoozing up sponsors with whiskey and good-natured bullying.

Boudicca, her face as impassive and emotionless as always. Tigellinus. Is he thinking about his lost chance to go into the Games, telling the cadets what he would have done, pointing out all our mistakes and missteps? Are the cadets, bronze and silver and gold tags around their necks, watching in the viewing rooms, teasing each other under their breath, eyes wide with dreams of glory?

I push down thoughts of Maura, Pat, and Declan. They're only a distraction. Instead I finger the platinum tag around my neck and whisper to the darkness.

"I'm coming for you."

Only Citrine hears but she doesn't comment. I'm sure in the Capitol they'll play the recordings over and over, speculating on who I'm so intent on returning to.

It doesn't matter. I'm sure he's watching on a pirated feed in some filthy hut. He'll know.

"Guys," says Tiller in a soft voice.

I look up, jolted out of my thoughts, cursing myself silently for my lapse in attention. The hedges around us have changed again. They appear to be totally natural. I lean my head towards one and sniff. Smell natural too.

"Hear that?"

The soft trickling of running water comes up from ahead. Orion steps forward and motions for me to join him in the lead.

We walk out into a large round open space. The hedge reaches over us in a sort of floral rotunda. A silver fountain with a statue of a dancing woman is in the center. Water pours from a jar on her shoulders. The lawn is soft beneath our feet and there are berries growing amongst the hedge. The perfect place for cannon fodder to hide.

"Spread out and search," says Orion.

"Here." I point down at the lawn against the fountain. "Someone's been sleeping here. This must be where the parachute came down."

"Look here," says Citrine. "Blood. They're wounded."

Tiller scans the rounded edges of the rotunda. "Well they're gone now. Let's head back. There must be a dead end path on the other side that we'll – "

The bloody, filthy body drops bursts out from far up inside the hedge and gives a wild scream. A knife comes down. Tiller falls, blood pouring from his side. He manages to push his attacker away. The tribute races for the exit.

"Close her in!" I scream.

Orion and Rob leap towards the entrance to the rotunda as the tribute splashes through the fountain. The girl from 9 is wild-eyed and heaving. Her evening gown is a mess of filthy, rotting rages, her feet are bare, her hair matted. There are two long, cruel knives in her hand. She looks around at us and _hisses._

Mercury rushes to Tiller and snatches up his brace of javelins. He sends one flying at Nine but she hears it coming and rolls out of the way. It passes so close to Citrine that her hair flutters.

"Watch it!" she snarls.

Her voice seems to trigger the girl and she rushes the girl from 1. Citrine's glaive makes a cut across her shoulder but Nine doesn't even slow down. Citrine ducks as the knife swings at her and a lock of golden hair flutters down to the grass.

I move forward but Rob gets there first. A kick sends Nine flying towards the center of the rotunda.

"Watch my back!" Rob shouts. "I've got this one."

I motion for the others to do as he says. I've seen this in tributes before. Driven mad by hunger and isolation and stress they become little more than savage animals, immune to both pain and fear. And Rob is the best knife fighter among us. Orion watches, his face impassive. Citrine pulls out a dirk. Mercury raises another javelin as Tiller struggles to his feet, his hand clutching his scarlet-drenched t-shirt.

"Let's play, Nine," says Rob and he charges.

It's almost a dance. They dodge and swing at each other. Both of them take cuts, some superficial, some deep. Rob ducks and weaves, his silver knives two blurs through the air. He's not the flirting boy any more or the half-baked Career. As Rob slams Nine down to the ground I know I'm seeing the boy who only survived on the streets of District 6 because he never loses a fight.

Nine knocks a knife from his hand and makes a cut across Rob's calf. He goes down to one knee. She gives a shriek of triumph and rushes forward.

Rob is ready. He rises, flips her over his hip. Her knives swing uselessly through the air as she hits the fountain. "NOW!" he yells as he throws.

Rob's remaining knife flies through the air. It's joined by a dirk and a javelin. All three thud into the girl from 9. She gives one last astonished look before she falls back into the fountain, red flowers blossoming through the water from her wounds.

The cannon sounds.

"I guess they'll have to figure out who's kill that technically was in the Capitol," I say. "Nice work, Six."

Rob is motionless, seemingly astonished by his victory. Orion is already crossing to offer his congratulations. I walk towards Tiller. Mercury already has a roll of bandages out and is helping Tiller pull off his shirt.

"Not…too bad," Tiller says, wincing. "Missed anything….vital." He looks up hopefully but no silver parachutes descend through the foliage.

I offer my bottle of water. "Keep it clean." I say. The wound in Tiller's side is indeed nasty looking but nothing too bad, as far as the Games are concerned.

"Three more," says Mercury as he finishes bandaging Tiller.

"Three more," I agree.

"Guys," says Citrine. "Is it feeling cold to you?"

I notice it as soon as she mentions it. My breath is coming out in puffs of fog. The temperature is dropping rapidly. Even as I look around, the grass beneath my feet begins to frost and crystals of ice form around the corpse of the girl from 9 as she floats in the fountain.

I look at Orion. His eyes widen.

"Run," he says.

We bolt for the exit. I take the lead, trying to keep my hand near the hedge wall so we don't lose our way. I glance back. The others are keeping pace, even Tiller. I suspect the adrenaline is numbing the pain for the moment.

The cold becomes searing as we round the corner into the poisonous blue foliage. I can hear the leaves crackling as they crystalize. Breathing becomes painful but I don't break my stride. I bless the trainers at the Institute who made us run laps around the Pit in the deep of winter.

I don't think the Gamemakers would freeze the entire Career pack solid, but I wouldn't put it past them to pick off a straggler or two. I increase my pace.

"THERE!" comes a voice behind me. I think it's Citrine.

Ahead of us, golden light pours from the entrance to the maze. I hurtle towards it, even though I can't feel my feet any more.

"ENOBARIA, NO!"

I hear the whistle behind me and dive to the ground. Rob's knife cuts through the air above me and thuds into the ground at the entrance.

There's an explosion of green and red sparks that set the foliage ablaze. It's quickly smothered by the cold. We pull up, looking at each other in panic. Tiller brings up the rear, chest heaving. Mercury snatches a javelin and throws it towards the entrance. It thuds into the ground, sending up another explosion, this time of pink and cerulean.

We stare at each other in horror.

"Booby….trapped," says Citrine. Her hair is frosting.

I scream in fury. "I am not going to die as a damn icicle!"

I race towards the entrance and throw myself over the ground where the knife and javelin landed. The ground rushes up to meet me, I hit it with both my hands, completing the dive roll. Warmth, merciful warmth washes over me.

"It's okay!" I call back. "You have to jump!"

Citrine comes first, her dive roll far more graceful than mine. Rob next, then Mercury. He gives a scream of pain as he lands. His feet are still bare and they must be excruciating. Orion comes flying out next. There's a brief moment of silence and then Tiller makes the leap with a howl. He lands hard and cries out, clutching his side, but he's alive.

We're all alive.

Above us, the maze finishes crystalizing into a bizarre ice palace.

Citrine marches up to me. "You damn Twos. Bravery before sense, always." She kisses me deeply. I let her.

Two parachutes come falling from the sky. One has socks and boots for Mercury, who pulls them on gratefully. The other is a healing cream for Rob. He starts applying it to his many wounds.

"They must have been impressed with you, Six," I say. It's an understatement. I don't think I've ever seen such an expensive gift go to the morphling district.

Orion's face is set and hard as he helps Rob apply the cream to the cuts across his back. He doesn't speak as we limp away from the maze and limp back down to the palace. I can't blame him. We took down one crazed outlier and half the pack is injured in some way. It doesn't feel much like a victory.

As we pass a deep reflecting pool, Orion suddenly spins around to Rob.

"How did you know?"

"Huh?" Rob looks up startled. "Know what?"

"About the booby trap. The sparks, the bombs. You knew they were there."

Rob shrugs. "The dirt by the entrance had been dug up and turned over. I figured there could be something there. You set off the last one by stepping on a loose tile."

Orion looks at me, horror spreading over his face. I'm sure mine mirrors it. The others just look at us, confused.

"That was no Gamemaker trap," I say slowly.

Understanding dawns on the others faces.

"Too sloppy. Too obvious," says Tiller.

"Too crude," Citrine adds.

Orion's face tightens. He puts a hand across his face and gives a huge sigh. "Fireworks and piss."

"What are you on about, Two?" snaps Mercury.

Orion looks at me. "The Cornucopia. There were barrels there. Jugs. Potassium nitrate. And in the carriage house, we could smell it. We could smell it, Enobaria."

From somewhere in my memory a soft, timid voice comes from a young boy dripping snot onto his suit, telling Caesar Flickerman about fireworks.

"I made him piss himself," Orion goes on. "I made him piss himself in the elevator in the Training Center. He wouldn't stop sniveling and moaning and all this time…" Orion throws his head back and laughs. It's half insane, half deeply impressed. "Oh, _well done District Three!_

I sit down on the edge of the pool. "The Gamemakers have been protecting him."

"And he's been following us. He must have watched us go into the maze. He knew there was one way out. Figured he'd try to take a couple of us out when we returned so he buried his bombs, his mines, whatever the hell he's put together in that room, and we've been totally oblivious because he's fucking _District Three._" Orion shakes his head, his laughter dying. "He nearly got us. Half of us would be dead if it weren't for luck and Rob's eyes."

Citrine joins me by the poolside. "So what do we do?"

Orion's eyes are glinting. "We can't depend on spotting his traps, who knows what else he's cooked up in there. We take him down. Tomorrow."

So we sit down, pull out apples and water, and start discussing tactics.

"The main problem is that door. The one at the top of the loft. It'll take a bomb of our own to get through I reckon."

"Or a battering ram," I say. There's plenty of trees here. It'll work if the outer doors have a force field again. The wood won't conduct the charge and it should be able to get through."

Orion grunts his assent. "There might be something in the palace that will work just as well. A pedestal or something. Mercury, Rob, and Tiller go in first. You'll sweep the area for traps. Once it's clear Citrine, Enobaria and I will bring the ram. We'll all have to help in the battering."

Tiller touches his side. "I don't know if I can-"

"You'll do what I tell you to, Four," Orion growls.

"And if we spring a trap?" asks Mercury.

Orion shrugs. "One less for the rest of us to worry about."

Mercury sneers. "Thanks but I think I'll take ram duty."

Orion stands and stretches to his impressive height. "You questioning my orders, Dustell?"

"I'm telling you I'm not going to be your sacrificial lamb, Baker."

I raise my hands. "Boys, please."

Mercury ignores me. "I'm getting real tired of the poser shit, Orion. I let you take lead for a while but you should have been cut from the pack once you singed off all your leg hair, so don't think I'm going to just lay down and let some fay boy from Three cook me –"

He doesn't get any further. I reach over and shove him into the pool.

It's deep, so he doesn't hurt himself. He comes to the surface and splutters. All around me my allies laugh. "What the hell, Malachite!?"

I stand and shrug. "You were getting boring. Figured I'd cool down that testosterone tantrum."

He struggles to get out of the pool. "I swear Enobaria I'm going to break that bald head of yours-"

"Aw, he's flirting Enobaria!" says Citrine right before she shoves me in.

The water is cold but clear and I break the surface laughing just in time to see Orion pick up Rob and throw him in before jumping in himself. Citrine smirks and gives Mercury, who's half out, a little kick. He tumbles back in. Citrine removes her top and makes a graceful dive.

Tiller looks at the water wistfully then undoes his bandage. "If I'm going to die tomorrow I want one more swim," he says. He slips into the water and sighs as the water washes over his wound.

Rob is sitting on Orion's shoulders. "Throwdown, Enobaria," he says.

I grin. "I'm with Mercury. Let's let you boys blow off some steam."

Mercury rolls his eyes but soon I'm seated on his shoulders. The four of us wrestle and grapple, trying to throw the top fighter off the bottom. Citrine laughs as I manage to physically pick Rob up and throw him into the pool.

Orion and Citrine take on Rob and myself. I lose this round. Tiller swims around us like a fish, sabotaging both teams. We end up dunking each other and sending huge fans of water at each other, laughing and giggling like twelve-year-olds who snuck out after curfew.

We pull ourselves out and lay on the lawn, drying out under the sun. I can see a parachute descending towards us. When it lands I can smell roast beef and potatoes.

I look over at my allies. Rob curled under Orion's arm. Mercury helping Tiller back into his bandages. Citrine with her arm around me.

Boudicca told me to make friends. She told me the alliance, the Games depended on it.

I think I may have followed her advice a little too well.


	16. Chapter 16

We launch our assault on the carriage house early the next morning.

We split into three teams. Mercury and I patrol the grove around the carriage house through the evening and into the night in case we can catch our quarry coming and going. Citrine and Tiller relieve us sometime after midnight, maintaining the watch while Mercury and I catch some sleep. There are no kisses from Citrine tonight. We're all on edge.

Meanwhile, Rob and Orion scour the palace for something to use as a battering ram. We had thought to use a tree until we realized (with rather stupid looks on our faces) that none of us was carrying an axe. Citrine wakes me up as the sun crests over the top of the arena. Rob and Orion have returned, carrying tall marble pedestal between them. Mercury is waking up too, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

I look out at the silent carriage house, then at Orion. He nods.

"It's time," he says.

The pack stands in a circle, momentarily silent. We all know we're walking into the worst case scenario any Career can face. A confrontation with a genius from District 3, armed with traps we can't see and methods we can't fight. The chances that all of us will be alive by sunset are slim.

"Well," I say. "The Games slogan exists for a reason. May the odds."

"Be ever in our favor," Citrine finishes.

"The plan is good," Orion says. "Follow the plan and we'll all walk out of there. Probably with nothing more than a nice tan."

We all burst into almost hysterical giggling. Even Mercury.

"Rob, Citrine, Enobaria. Lift the ram with me. Tiller, Mercury, watch our backs, keep your eyes open."

I take the back left side of the pedestal, right behind Rob. The four of us carry the ram out of the grove and into the growing sunlight. No mutts crawl out of the woods to attack us. I consider this a good sign. By all appearances the Gamemakers aren't protecting the boy from 3 anymore.

"Stop," says Tiller in a harsh tone that brings us all to a halt. "Move three steps to the right together."

We do so and Tiller motions us forward. I see a patch of overturned and patted down grass dirt, no doubt concealing one of Three's fireworks traps. We have to navigate around two more. The slope is a minefield, but fortunately Three seems to have missed the camouflage station during training.

We make it to the door of the carriage house. Tiller and Mercury join us with the ram.

"On my count," says Orion. "One. Two."

On _three_ we swing the ram together. It shudders into the heavy door. My arms sting as the rebound ricochets through us.

"Again!" shouts Orion.

On the fourth strike there's an ominous cracking. On the fifth the door buckles like a piece of tissue paper. On the sixth it caves in entirely.

"District One, District Four, scout ahead," says Orion.

There's no time to rest, the boy from 3 certainly knows we're here by now and is probably preparing whatever last minute defenses he's rigged up.

"Reeks," says Mercury. "But all clear for the first ten feet."

We step inside the carriage house together. It's just how I remember it from our last exploration. The fumes of chemicals are much stronger now. They waft up and make my eyes water.

"Someone's been hard at work," I mutter.

We take slow, tenuous steps forward. Tiller and Mercury scan every inch of the floor leading to the stairs up to the loft.

We're about halfway across the carriage house when my foot slips. Orion gives an_ oof_ as I go down to one knee, but he holds the weight of our end steady.

"Sorry," I mutter. It's all I can get out. The stench of the chemicals is overpowering at this level. My knee is slick with what I first think is blood, but I didn't fall that hard. I wipe my hand against the floor. It comes up wet. I sniff. I nearly pass out from the fumes.

Some instinct pulls my eyes forward. I see something glint behind the entrance to the stables. Two black, dead-looking eyes. And a spark of brilliant orange.

I know what's about to happen before it does.

"GET OFF THE FLOOR!" I scream.

The match falls to the floor of the carriage house as a slight figure makes a mad dash for the loft stairs. The fire blooms like a scarlet flower across the floor as everyone reacts to my scream.

Rob and I leap sideways and clamor up onto a thin windowsill, the only refugee we can reach. Orion and Citrine jump the other direction towards the door. Mercury makes it there at the same time. The ram falls to the ground and cracks down the middle.

Tiller is the closet to the stables entrance. He has no chance. The fires envelop him in a swirling wreath of flame, burning away his clothes and hair in seconds. He wheels around the room, shrieking in pain before falling to the ground in a charred heap.

A cannon fires.

_Final eight_.

The flames don't come very high, the chemicals burn fast and low, but it might not make a difference. The chemical fumes and the smoke are already threatening to overwhelm me. Rob is coughing uncontrollably next to me as his boots start to smolder. If I pass out, it's all over.

There's a sharp hissing noise above us as sprinklers turn on. Apparently the Gamemakers really are fastidious about burning down this arena. The water pours over us and slowly begin to quench the flames. Through the haze I can see my remaining three allies trying to fight through the fires.

"Break the window!" I scream. "Go outside and break the window and get us out!"

"Orion!" Rob shouts over me. "Orion, help!"

Three faces swim out through the smoke and I watch the alliance for the Sixty-Second Hunger Games break.

Mercury goes first. He dashes out the door and back into the arena. Citrine takes Orion's arm and tries to pull him away, saying words I can't make out. I see my district partner make one more effort, a couple feet before the heat and flames push him back.

"Orion…."

A flicker of pain and loss crosses his face and then Orion is gone and the male tribute from District 2 hardens his face, grabs his last ally, and pulls her out the door, leaving us to the mercy of District 3.

I try to break the window myself but I'm too far gone and the glass is too strong. The water flow increases even as Rob falls off the windowsill and hits the ground with a thud. I fight the encroaching blackness for as long as I can, but even as I make one last attempt to punch through the window my body gives out and my vision goes dark. I'm only vaguely aware of falling and the last sound that crosses my mind is that I lost the Hunger Games.

_I'm dead but the smoke still swirls around me. It spirals, spins, then solidifies into bodies, shapes, faces. _

"_Do it Enobaria," begs Declan, his throat a red ruin. Blood pours out of him then spins out and becomes Maura. Her face is half chewed off._

"_You failed," she says. "You failed us."_

"_Why, Baria?" asks Pat, his face bloated and purple from the nightlock. "Why did you leave us? Why did you let us die?"_

"_I tried!" I scream to nothing. "I tried to save you, I tried to avenge you, please, I tried!"_

"_Silly little bird." Cecelia is coming towards me, her smoky black hair billowing. "You flew so high your wings melted in the sun."_

_She explodes into whips and becomes the Headmistress, who shakes her head in disappointment, then Tigellinus, then Madame Lucia, then Dido. They join Maura, Pat, and Declan and spin around me chanting, "You failed, you failed, you failed you failed you failed failed failed."_

_I turn away from them, clasping immaterial hands to ears. "Stop it!"_

_And then there's only one. The Speaker, the scar standing out across his boyish, handsome face. He's smiling._

"_Who are you, Speaker?" I ask. _

_He says nothing, but reaches forward and touches my cheek. His hands are so cold._

The ground is so cold.

I don't open my eyes. I feel nothing but the cold ground beneath me and pain throbbing through my cranium. I steady my breathing, trying to control my heartrate. I accept and acknowledge all my senses one by one, touch first. Then hearing. There's a buzzing noise nearby, as well as a low whimpering. I can smell smoke and chemicals, less putrid than they were in the carriage house. I'm not ready to open my eyes quite yet. I take slow, even breaths and accept the astounding truth.

I am still alive.

I try to lift my arms and am rewarded with sharp pain. It forces my eyes open. I'm lying on a cold cement floor, wrapped in a cocoon of what appears to be barbed wire. The pain in my head increases. Any movement I make digs the wire into my skin. A cry of pain escapes my lips and a low voice snakes out of the darkness.

"Wakey, wakey, time to play!"

Someone hauls me up and forces me into a sitting position, my back against the hard wall. The wire digs deeper until I manage to settle myself. I force my eyes back open and see the boy from District 3 crouched in front of me, a mad smile on his face. His tuxedo is as ragged as the Nine girl's dress was and his eyes are just as mad. But I can tell from a glance he's stronger, more in control of himself. I somehow can't connect the sight of him from the whimpering, snot-nosed boy who pissed himself in front of Orion.

"District…Three…" I manage.

"Please, call me Codey," he says. "And you're Enobaria, from District Two. I know. I've been watching you for a long time."

I try to make sense of what's happen. "Where…where am…"

"Oh dear, where are my manners? My escort tried to drill them into me on the train but I do seem to forget." The boy stands and starts walking around the space. "Welcome to my home. Well, as much as it is for the time being, until I get my Victor's house."

I've already figured out that I'm in the formerly inaccessible carriage house loft. There are jugs of chemicals around me. Most of them appear empty. Strange contraptions that I take to be half-finished fireworks are stacked in a corner. My eye is drawn to the opposite wall. Rob is propped up, wrapped in his own cocoon of wires. For the first time I notice that the wires are connected to what appears to be a battery in the center of the room.

The boy from 3 sees my eyes roving over them. "It's a nice toy, isn't it? Want to see what it does?"

I don't, I distinctly don't. Codey practically skips over to the battery, gives me a little grin, and flips the switch. Fire races across my body as electricity courses through the wires. I scream, loud and long until the pain abruptly ceases. My arms and legs are shaking uncontrollably. My clothes smoke slightly.

"That was just a taste," says Codey, his eyes glinting. "That one has already had three courses." He nods to where Rob is whimpering.

The boy is clearly brilliant, and also clearly entirely unhinged. There's a voice whispering in my ear. It sounds remarkably like Boudicca.

_Keep him talking._

My wrists are bound with more wire. I move them a bit closer to my mouth. I wish to the mountains I still had my sword on me, but it's gone, lost in the fire or confiscated by the boy from 3, I don't know.

"You've been clever," I manage to say.

The boy looks absurdly pleased. "Yes. I'm from District Three, you know. We're smart there."

"Very smart," I agree as I inch my wrists a bit further up, ignoring the pain of the barbs. "How did you do it? During training you were so…so…"

"Weak? Scared?" He smiles. "I had to be. Beetee says the Careers always check out the Threes, so I had to do more than hide. I had to disgust you. I had to make you laugh at me." The smile widens. "Did it work?"

"Very well," I say. "Very impressive. But you mentioned fireworks in your interview. That was a clue."

"For the sponsors. The ones Beetee talked to. So they would know."

"And then you set traps for us?"

"I've been following you around the arena. Set the traps where I knew you'd go. The palace."

"And the maze."

"Yep." He snickers. "You didn't know it was me. You never suspected! Because I was too clever."

"It took us a long time, yes," I agree. "You sure fooled us." The boy is now pacing across the loft, alternating giggling and wringing his hands. "The fireworks, the chemical trap, all very clever. But what I don't understand are these." I shake the wires, bringing my wrists almost to my mouth. "Why the cages? Why are you keeping us alive?"

The boy looks at me, cocking his head to one side, a confused look on his face. "Because I'm hungry."

"Keeping us alive is going to feed you?" I ask, my own confusion rising.

His face hardens. "I watched you with the boy from Eleven. You got boots. I watched the One girl and the little girl from Ten. She got a picnic." He looks towards his half-finished fireworks. There's a silver parachute and a large kettle there. "I got a lot just from capturing you."

_Oh fuck._

I can't keep the bitterness and pain out of my voice. "Beetee is playing hardball this year."

Codey snickers. "Actually most of it was Wiress's idea. Beetee doesn't really think anyone is as smart as he is, but he's just smart. Wiress is _clever. _People underestimate her a lot."

I only vaguely remember the lone female Victor from 3, her year was right after the landslide that killed my family when three different Community Homes shuffled me back and forth before I ended up at the Institute. I can't think of anything else to say. Rob is moaning again.

Codey makes shushing noises at him, then looks back at me. "Don't worry, Enobaria. I'm saving you. I wanted you to be awake, but you're the main event. Let's start with the appetizer. Care to take bets on how long this one will last?"

I'm sure in the Capitol they're doing just that and a surge of hatred and disgust and anger pulses through me. All I see are Reavers, Reavers with their faces pressed against the bars of the Cage as they scream out how long they think Pat will last under the stones.

Codey flips a switch on the battery.

Rob is awake, awake and screaming in pain, his back arching. Codey laughs and increases the current. The screams turn to shrieks. I can smell the flesh burning from here. I scream at the boy from 3, insult him, insult his district, but he doesn't seem to even hear. I wriggle and squirm and bite down blood and bile until my wrists are against my mouth. I tear at the wires with my teeth, my mouth filling with blood. Just when I think Rob cannot possibly endure any more, the wires around my wrists snap off and I leap to my feet, pulling the cocoon apart before I launch myself at the boy from 3.

He hears me coming and rolls away but he's not what I was aiming for. I come down hard onto the battery and it shatters, broken plastic digging into my side. Rob collapses in a heap.

Before I can turn, Codey is back on me. He throws me against the wall and launches himself at me. I know right away I'm in trouble. I'm burned, I can't fill my lungs with air, I'm exhausted and in excruciating pain. I've never faced a fight in worse condition. Codey is strong, stronger than I could have imagined. Whether its Games madness or he, like Rob, has learned a few things on the streets of his home district, he pummels and punches me with increasing desperation. I'm barely able to block half his blows.

I grab his head and try to bash him against the wall but he pushes me away and I go down. He comes at me, eyes wild. I jump up and flip him over my hip, but he tumbles in a roll and is back up in a moment. I'm not able to compensate in time and I'm out of balance when he strikes out with his fist. It hits the side of my head and I hit the floor.

I'm on my back, gasping for breath. Codey's fingers wrap around my neck and I can't breathe at all. He's on top of me, holding me down, his hands choking the life from me like I choked a Reaver with my own hair so long ago.

I try pushing against his shoulders but I'm too weak. I realize for the second time today that I've lost the Hunger Games.

So I stop fighting.

My arms relax. Codey is still pushing down and he doesn't expect the sudden lack of resistance. He comes down towards me and I wrap my arms around him, pulling him down into a hug. His soft neck presses right against my mouth.

I bite down.

Codey shrieks and instinctively jerks away, pulling out my two front teeth. My mouth is filled with blood. I'm drowning in it, the sharp taste of iron filling everything. The boy from 3 gags and chokes on it, his fingers loosening. Not quickly enough, so I finish.

I jerk my head to the side, effectively tearing out his throat. Stringy flesh dangles from my teeth. I push him off me and roll to the side before I vomit. It's a murky red mess.

The taste. I can taste him. I can _taste_ him.

A cannon fires. Just one.

"Rob," I whisper.

I can't move, my body insists that I can't move. I have to drag myself past the ruin of the poor, ingenious boy from District 3 who could have won the Games if I hadn't wanted to live so badly. I pull myself up to Rob and yank at the wires. They're red hot. I yelp and pull my shirt off, using it as a buffer as I pull Rob out of the cage.

A couple seconds is all it takes for me to know that the boy from 6 is beyond saving. No medicine from the Capitol could heal his burned and ruined flesh. Somehow, he's still breathing. His eyes flicker open.

"Enobaria….hurts," he says.

"Don't talk," I say. "Going to get you out."

I don't know why I do it. All I can think of is that my last ally doesn't deserve to die in a forsaken cement room next to the corpse of his torturer. How I get the door open, how I manage to drag him down the stairs, I'll never know. The broken ram from our foolish siege is still lying on the blackened floor of the carriage house. Tiller's body is long removed. I pull Rob out the door and lay him down onto the grass. The sun is setting, lighting up his face with brilliant oranges.

"Please…" he says. "Hurts….so….hurt so bad."

I know what he's asking for but I don't have a single weapon left to me and I don't have enough strength left to break his neck. He seem to understand my dilemma because he gasps something about his pocket. I fish around in his charred trousers until I pull out a knife.

"You never run out," I say.

He smiles. "Would….have….would have picked….you."

"What?"

"He's starting to convulse. "Training. You said…pick…"

The memory comes to me. Citrine and I teasing Rob at the knife-throwing station, telling him that when the time came for him to die he could pick which beautiful woman would finish him off.

"Honored," I whisper.

"Tell…Orion….sorry I wasn't…sorry…"

"He knowth," I say. It's hard to speak, especially with my front teeth gone. "He alwayth knew. You made him happy, for a little while."

Tears leak out of the corners of his eyes. "Kiss?" he whispers.

"Kith?"

"From…my girl. Pretend. Last one."

I ignore the burning sensation behind my eyes. "What'th her name?"

His voice is almost gone. "Sara."

I lean over Rob and press his own knife against his throat. I bend down and kiss him deeply. "From Thara." I thrust the knife.

The cannon fires.

I know I have to move away so they can collect the body, but I don't. Not now. Not yet. I sit outside the carriage house, watching the sun set.

Two parachutes fall towards me. The first has a large bottle of water. I gulp it down gratefully, washing the taste of blood and tendons from my mouth. I have to pick a few pink strings from my remaining teeth.

The second parachute is larger and the package is bulkier. I open it slowly. The breath seizes in my throat as a new sword falls out.

I pick it up reverently. This is no arena sword, made in Capitol workshops. This is District 2 work. The steel is light and ripples in the dying sun. I swing it a few times and then I know. I nearly drop it from the shock. This is the sword. The sword I took from the Reavers, the sword I wielded on my first step towards my revenge.

I raise my head to the sky. "Thank you," I say.

I'm sure Dido hears.

I wait until the anthem plays and the three faces appear in the sky. The boy from 3, his face small and frightened behind the mask he gave the Capitol and the rest of us. Tiller. Rob. Their faces fade and they're gone. I stand and walk down the slope into the grove and away from the palace.

There are six tributes left in the arena, myself included. The boys from 10 and 5. Mercury, whom I'm sure has found a new hiding place after the breaking of the alliance. Orion and Citrine who may still be working together. Knowing my former ally and district partner, I'd bet on it.

Boudicca would tell me to find them. She'd tell me to maintain the alliance, hold it until there was no other choice. She told me to make friends.

But my friends died in the dusty wilderness. For sport and blood. There's only one command that has ever mattered.

_Kill them all, Baria._

So I do.

* * *

**AN: And that was the only part of Enobaria's Games that Katniss remembered. The Sixty-Second Games are about to come to a brutal close. Thanks for sticking with me for so long!**


	17. Chapter 17

With eighteen tributes dead in the first nine days of the Games, the Gamemakers decide to starve the rest of us out.

It makes sense, in terms of television. The audience waits all year for the Games, they would be most irate if they ended too quickly. Plus the hunger blasts down any reserves the remaining tributes have, any lingering moral qualms. Starvation and desperation make for great entertainment, so long as the tributes aren't too weak to move. I've seen it happen year after year before I ended up in the arena. I tell myself it won't last much longer. It's not much comfort to the pangs in my stomach.

The enforced fast starts the day after the deaths of Rob and Tiller and the boy from 3 whose name I want to forget as much as the taste of him. I head out from the carriage house to forage for apples. When I reach the grove the trees are completely barren. I hit a couple of berry patches on the south side of the arena, only to find leaves and brambles and nothing. I don't forage further. I'll eat bark if I have to.

I get an even more unpleasant surprise when I go to fill my bottle of water at one of the lily ponds and discover a cracked and sun-baked basin. Dry as a bone cracked open for its marrow. Now I worry. Food I can live without for a week or more. I won't last two days in my condition without water. I consider the idea that the Gamemakers are trying to draw us into the palace and sneak down into the west wing at the height of the afternoon. I try a few of the faucets in the huge, luxurious bathrooms. All dry. Even in the cavernous kitchens. There's no sign of anyone, not my former allies or the two remaining outliers.

I return to the carriage house as the sun begins to set, settling myself down for the night in the loft where the boy from 3 made his den. It still reeks of chemicals but even that is fading. The anthem plays, but there are no faces in the sky tonight. I wake up sometime after midnight and go out to the outside of the carriage house to relieve myself. When I return, there's a parachute attached to a parcel waiting outside the door. I carry it inside. Inside the parcel is a gallon of water, a bag of beef jerky, a package of crackers, and a tin of unsweetened plums. This late in the game, with food and water removed from the arena, it must have cost a fortune. Even if every quarry worker in 2 donated their next paycheck, it wouldn't cover it.

I try not to think about soft flesh giving way beneath my teeth, about the reason people in the Capitol are throwing money at me.

I take a few sips of water, gnaw on a piece of jerky, and think. Dido is trying to tell me something, obviously. If I ration the water and food, I can make it stretch by a week at the most. The other tributes will suffer. The mentors for Citrine and Orion might be able to scrounge something together. Mercury, I doubt it. The outliers, no chance.

She's telling me to wait. To not go hunting or foraging. She's given me enough to keep my strength up until the finale. The Gamemakers are keeping me in reserve for the big show.

Or maybe I'm just reading complex messages into beef jerky. Either way, I decide to stay alive.

Even so, by the next day the carriage house has become unbearably repressive and I sneak out in the early afternoon with my sword. I find a quiet garden enclave and begin practicing my swordplay. Slow, low-energy, but flashy. Something for the editors to use to spice up mandatory reviewing tonight. To remind the audience that when the Gamemakers decide to end it, I'll be ready.

Two days after the breaking up of the alliance, I'm running through the basic drills every twelve year old at the Institute learns when I hear shouts, grunts, and cries in the distance. I hesitate for a moment, then grip my sword tighter and head towards the source. Perhaps this is it.

I've gone maybe a hundred yards to the north when the shouts stop. A cannon goes off. I hesitate, take a few steps forward, then back. There's a rustling just ahead of me and I have just enough time to duck behind a bit of statuary when a large, hulking figure pushes past a hedge and stalks past me.

He's covered in blood from brow to knees. Too much to be just his own. It's only after he's gone a few yards past me that I recognize the boy from 10. A cold bead of sweat runs down my spine. He doesn't look starved or dehydrated and if he's injured, his wounds don't seem to be troubling him much.

I debate whether or not to go after him, but I decide against it. I'd have the element of surprise but I'm still in no shape for an honest fight, not with my wounds from the fight with the Three boy still healing. Just as I make my decision, the hovercraft appears almost overhead. I almost panic, but the claw comes down and picks up a bloody, battered corpse from beyond the hedge. It's too far and too quick to make out who it is, even the gender.

That night, I sit outside the carriage house and take a few more sips of water and nibble another cracker. The anthem plays and Mercury's face appears in the sky.

I lean my head back against the wall of the carriage house. Mercury is dead. The vicious, talented, sarcastic boy from District 1 is gone. I don't know how to feel. A sense of anti-climax overwhelms me. He was the ally I liked the least, and, I grudgingly admit to myself, the one who had earned most of my respect. He was never anything less than honest, at least. No mind games, no acting. Somehow, when I imagined the end of the Games, it was always myself fighting him in my mind. My strength and endurance against his dazzling swordsmanship. But now he's dead. I wonder briefly how he ended up in the arena, why a young man from a rich, prestigious family (at least according to Citrine) would risk everything to volunteer for a death match. There's much I don't know about District 1. I suppose it's something I'll never have a good answer for, even if I cared to investigate.

Much more concerning to me is the fact that the boy from 10 was able to defeat him, whether in ambush or open combat. I'll have to wait until the Victory Ceremony to find out how he did it. If I don't make it that far, it will hardly matter.

I sleep in the loft. I have nightmares. I wake up remembering nothing except for a vague sense of terror and dead faces.

Nothing happens the next day except for my water getting lower and my food reserves getting smaller. I don't even venture out of the carriage house. There are no faces in the sky tonight. And then as night passes and dawn breaks on the two week marker of the Sixty-Second Hunger Games, the Gamemakers call a feast, as I knew they would.

I wake up to the sound of Claudius Templesmith's voice booming through the arena. I'm alert immediately, catching the words as sleep flees from me.

"….to the tributes of the Sixty-Second Hunger Games! Here in the Capitol we all hope you've been enjoying the hospitality of this year's beautiful arena. However, it seems that all of you could use a little boost before we crown one of you our newest Victor. A feast will be served in the dining hall of the palace at seven o clock tonight sharp. We hope you will all be able to attend. No excuses mind you! And be sure to dress your best!"

Claudius's voice echoes for a moment then dies away. I imagine him as I've seen him on television in recent years, hair bleached and slicked back, handsome face and perfect smile practically salivating at the thought of the remaining tributes butchering each other. All around the Capitol families will be making popcorn and other snacks and inviting over friends and holding viewing parties for the grand finale.

The part about dressing our best sticks in my mind and I duck my head out the door of the carriage house. Sure enough, there's a parachute waiting for me. This one is emblazoned with the seal of Panem, signifying that it came directly from the Gamemakers and not sponsors. I laugh out loud as I open it. Another evening dress, this one black and encrusted with flakes of lapis lazuli. I recognize Madame Lucia's work.

I look towards the trees where I know dozens of cameras are pointed towards me. "I take it this means I can still wear my boots," I say. I take the silence as a confirmation.

There's barely a half pint of water left in my gallon. I drink it all. Eat the last strip of jerky, crunch down my last two crackers. It's more food than I've eaten at one time in almost a week and my stomach demands more. I tell it there's a feast waiting later. If I die, it will at least be with a full stomach.

The sun starts to set and I peel off my filthy, scorched clothes and pull on the evening gown. It fits perfectly. I give a few twirls so the cameras can admire it fully, even though in reality I'm testing its capabilities. It doesn't inhibit my movement. My stylist clearly knows what she's doing. I pick up my sword and run my thumb along its edge. I bleed on it. A good omen in District 2. I give the half-made fireworks, the jugs of chemicals, the broken battery one more look as I tie my boots up and head towards the palace.

If I were Orion and Citrine I'd be waiting behind the doors of the palace to cut down anyone entering from the grounds, so I go around the opposite side and break a window. If anyone is in this wing of the palace they'll hear me, but no one comes sneaking out of the drapes as I pull myself into the Cornucopia ballroom.

I begin combing through the rooms, looking for the grand formal dining room. I've been there twice on old excursions looking for cannon fodder, I remember distantly. I know it's on the first floor, but my memory fails me after that. If I had the electronic map, I'd know exactly where to go, but I lost all my supplies in the raid on the carriage house and have no idea who ended up with the map. All our toys, all our advantages. I can't help laughing at myself.

The palace is empty, silent. The halls echo with my footsteps. Every rustling curtain is Orion, each mirror hides Citrine, every niche looms like the bloody boy from 10. Outside the palace, the sky brims with storm clouds. The rain is battering a steady cadence against the windows when I finally stroll into the dining hall almost by accident. I'm greeted by nothing but the high vaulted ceiling and portraits of the past presidents of Panem on the oak paneled walls.

At first I panic. The grand oak table is laid with five sets of china, candelabra, linen tablecloth, and nothing else, and for a moment I fear I've missed the feast entirely. But there, at the very end, there's a silver platter and dome. I raise my sword and approach cautiously.

The sound is soft at first, just a rustling and clanking. I spin towards the door. It's empty. I turn back in time to see the ornamental grate to an air vent tumble to the soft carpet and the boy from 5 leap out, landing lightly on his feet.

I almost congratulate him for finding a hiding place none of the Careers even thought of, but he's racing for the platter and I'm giving a burst of speed. He gets there before me and ducks under my swinging sword as my momentum carries me rolling over the table. I make a grab for the platter but Five is quicker and knocks it out of my reach. It goes tumbling down and a single, stale loaf of bread rolls across the floor.

The Five boy snatches it up and takes a huge bite even as I swing at him. He dodges again, his eyes wide and wild, his tiny face contrasted against his perfectly tailored tuxedo.

"Give it here, Five!" I scream. "I'll gut you! I thwear I will!"

The boy from 5 races for the air vent only to realize it's too high for him to climb back into. He gives a squeal of panic as I swing at him again. He anticipates it and runs. My sword slices into the oak paneled wall. It takes two tugs and precious seconds to free it, time the boy from 5 takes advantage of to race for the door.

The boy from 10 is waiting for him. Five practically falls into his arms. Ten grips his head and gives a sharp, quick tug. There's a snap of bone and boy and bread both fall to the ground. The cannon fires.

Ten is in a new tuxedo as well. He looks at me. I look down at the bread.

"Thplit it with you, Ten," I say.

Ten's only response is to undo his zipper, pull out his junk and piss on the moldy loaf.

He has his own brand of showmanship down, I'll give him that. I raise my sword. "No pretentheth. I like that."

Ten pulls out a long, cruelly curved butcher's cleaver. "You're not going home, District Two. I'm going to carve you up right here."

I grin. "Like you did Mercury?"

He grins himself. There's no crazed insanity there, which makes it all the more unsettling. "That's right. Did you lose one of your little allies?"

"Actually I wath going to thank you for thparing me the trouble."

His grin grows wider. The audience must be loving this. "You won't be any trouble either. You look half-dead already, brawling over a piece of bread."

I take a defensive position. "Why don't you come and find out."

The moment is suspended in time. We stare at each other over twenty feet and two reasons to go back home. I don't know who moves first.

We're on each other like two titans, steel singing through the air, and this is it. This is the fight every trainee at the Institute fears, the ones we're told to avoid at all costs, because training and skill means nothing when an outlier has strength and will and a shattered moral compass. The boy from 10 is stronger than me, faster. His cleaver comes down at me like whistling death. It takes every ounce of my strength just to avoid his blade, never mind mounting my own offense. I try to get the table between us so I can catch a breath, but the adrenaline sends him leaping onto it, kicking aside the china and raining blows down from the high ground.

I roll away across the carpet, forcing him to come down. He's not even winded. I see the faces of Dido, Tigellinus, Lyme. Disappointed. I'm failing. I'm failing them all.

Boudicca materializes as the boy from 10 stalks towards me. She waves a hand at me. _I hope the next time I see you it's under better circumstances. You have so much more potential than….this."_

And she's right.

For the first time since the reaping I truly understand what it means to have a platinum tag around my neck. The fog burns away, the cobwebs in my mind and muscles clear, and I earn it.

The sword in my hand is as light as a feather, and it sings a spiral towards the boy from 10. He deflects it, startled, and thrusts at me. This time his cleaver makes contact but I don't care because it doesn't _matter,_ I don't even _feel_ it, it's a bit of metal and it can't hurt me. My sword dances through the air, coming down, faster and faster, and now we've both taken wounds.

The boy from 10's face is etched with fury, then desperation, then raw fear. He keeps cutting me and I keep going. His hand lashes out and I decide I'm going to take it, so I do and the limb flies away. He gives a scream of agony that lasts only a moment until my sword thrusts itself into his heart. For a moment we're pressed together, closer than lovers, and I feel the life flee from his body in one terrible shudder. He slides off my sword to the ground. The cannon sounds.

I take one deep heaving breath and consider asking the Gamemakers for another loaf of bread when slow, sharp applause rings out behind me.

"Oh, well done Malachite, well done."

I turn around slowly. Citrine and Orion are at the door. They're dressed for the occasion. Citrine continues to clap as she steps over the body of the boy from 5.

Lightning flashes across our faces. I register that I am bleeding considerably.

"What happened to your teeth, Enobaria?" asks Citrine with her predator's grin.

I match it. "Dug into thome tough meat."

She raises an eyebrow and exchanges a glance at Orion.

"Found a new ally did we, Thitrine? Are you rutting thith one too, Baker?"

Orion snarls. I hiss.

"She's an animal," says Citrine in an almost awed voice. "Look at her. She's completely Games crazy."

"No," says Orion. "She just wants to go home. Like all of us."

I suddenly remember that Orion knows, he knows what happened in the wilderness, he heard the stories bandied about the Institute during the days I lay in recovery. He's looking at me with something in his eyes I can't identify. It might be fear, it might be contempt, it might be respect, it might be a bit of all three.

"I'll do it fast, District Two," Orion says.

No more names. Good. "You'll try, Dithtrict Two."

And then we're on each other.

He's fighting smart, at least to start out. None of the raw strength of the boy from 10, trying to end it brutally and quickly. He jumps in and out of my reach, his bastard sword testing my speed, searching for weak points. Citrine slides against the wall to position herself around me, to force me forward with her glaive so I have no choice but to thrust myself forward onto Orion's blade.

I don't give her the chance. I back up against the table, protecting my back. Citrine and Orion work in tandem so that I have to switch forms as the two very different weapons come at me. I lose myself to instinct, a dangerous technique. I anticipate every blow, every thrust, sometimes barely deflecting them away. As we fight I allow a small, detached part of my brain to watch my opponents. Citrine is conserving her energy, purposefully keeping herself back so that Orion can finish me off and she won't be exhausted when he turns on her. Orion is just a shade slower than he has been. A touch more sluggish. The five days of starvation have not been kind to him. But even as I tuck the observation away he visibly collects himself and his blade begins to whirl.

It's the last gambit. Citrine steps back, knowing she'd only get in the way of this final, intricate pattern dance. Our blades clash – high, low, right, around. He presses forward. I can't move back. Now I'm slowing down, from blood loss and exhaustion. Orion's sword spins in one last twist from a totally unexpected angle. My sword flies away as I scream in pain at my stinging wrist.

Orion brings his blade down in a brutal, unstoppable arc. I reach behind me, but too slow, too late.

His foot slips. In the blood. My blood, pooling on the floor. He compensates but the blade goes awry, I feel the breeze as it slices the air past me and I seize my one chance.

I snatch up one of the silver candelabras on the table and bring the heavy base smashing into Orion's skull. He goes down. I give a scream of fury and bring it down again towards his prone, groaning form.

Citrine is ready for me.

Her glaive comes swinging out of thin air and I catch it between the prongs of the candelabra. I push away, shoving her off balance and make a tremendous leap over Orion. I crawl across the floor, my fingertips reaching towards the blade of my sword. It's in my hand again just in time to save my life from Citrine's next blow.

I'm up on my feet, deflecting another blow aimed at my knees. A sword has versatility, but Citrine's glaive has the advantage of reach. The girl from 1 is not Hera, tough and strong with some skill in pole arms. She's as graceful as a ballet dancer, doing aerials over the shaft of the glaive so that my sword passes harmlessly under her and the wicked hook of the glaive comes down at a strange angle. I can't deflect it in time. It cuts across my collar bone. Blood falls in a sheet, drenching my dress.

On the floor by the table, Orion slowly pulls himself to his feet, the side of his face blood-covered and swollen. He gropes under the table for his sword.

"Where'd you get the pretty sword, District Two?" asks Citrine as I nick her forearm.

I'm dizzy from the blood loss. "Gift from home," I mutter.

She laughs. "They'll throw a sword at anyone these days. Your district used to have standards." She dives in for another thrust at my chest that I knock aside. "I know I wouldn't get any shiny blades for taking out a gutless worm from Three."

Orion is on his feet, sword in hand. He's looking at us blearily, deciding whether to dive in. It gives me an idea. A horrible, desperate idea. One that makes my breath catch.

_Kill them all, Baria._

"Not Three," I say as I slash across Citrine, cutting a scrap of fabric from her dress so her breast is exposed. "Thix."

Citrine falters. "Rob?" she asks. From the corner of my eye I see Orion's eyes narrow.

I nod. "Made it long. Made it hurt."

She rushes me and our blades clash again in a symphony. "You're sick, Two."

"Hypocrite," I laugh. "He wath begging me by the end. Crying for hith girl. He cried for Orion too. Laughed. Kithed him good-bye."

I can hear Orion's furious gasps from the end of the room. But I'm at the end of my strength. My breath is ragged, my arms are like marble. It's now or the end.

"I kithed him. Just like we promithed him, Thitrine. Made that hurt too."

Orion gives a scream of rage, of fury, of grief and rushes me, his sword slashing down through the air as Citrine savagely thrusts her glaive towards my belly.

It's the boy from 3 all over again. (Codey, his name is Codey). I can't fight them. They're too strong.

Two blades come soaring towards me and I don't fight anymore.

I fall to my knees. Orion's sword passes over me and cleaves through Citrine from collarbone to hip. The cannon fires before she hits the ground. Her blood fans over us both as her organs spill out onto the carpet.

Orion falls to his knees beside me. His eyes are wide, surprised. He looks at me, then down at his own belly where Citrine's glaive is thrust through his guts. His sword falls from his fingers.

I stand. Pull the glaive out. Remember a handsome, frustrated young man standing beneath the stars, dreaming of opportunity.

"Wherever you end up, I hope it's not boring," I say. I swing the glaive in a final arc, cutting halfway through my district partner's throat.

One final cannon fires. Four bodies lay in the dining room. One Victor stands among them.

The sound of trumpets ring around me. I vaguely hear Claudius Templesmith announcing me as the Victor of the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games.

I fall back to my knees.

Breathe in the stench of death around me.

I won.

I won the Hunger Games.

I promised…

The walls of the dining room slide open to a bright, sunny verandah. I hear the hum of the hovercraft's engine. A ladder comes down. It's an invitation.

The real work is about to begin.


	18. Chapter 18

Soft, teal-colored hands lift me into the hovercraft even as it turns and sets a course away from the arena. Loud, obnoxious voices in irritating cadences are assuring me that I'm going to be alright, that I'm safe, that I've won the Hunger Games and isn't it just so wonderful and do I have any idea how many parties are going to be held in my honor? I try to tell them to shut up, to reach out and strike them down like I did my fellow tributes, but my body is overcome by a tremendous weakness and I sink down to the deck, the hands around me keeping me from hitting the ground.

They move me to the medical bay and lift me up onto a stretcher as my stomach heaves and I vomit onto the deck. Everything about this place is making me nauseous. The smell of sterility and chemicals, the color of my half-coagulated blood staining the pristine white sheets beneath me, the chirping and cawing and bellowing of the kaleidoscopic Capitol folk hovering around me. To their credit they don't make a fuss about the puddle of sick; an orderly cleans it up as the rest proceed to stick tubes into my arms.

"Don't," I mutter as I recognize the slightly sweet smell of morphling. "Don't want to…thleep. Need…stay…awake."

"Oh your poor teeth, dear," says an orderly as she cheerfully sticks another needle under my skin. "Don't you worry, will have you all fixed up in time for the Victory Ceremony. We're just going to put you under for a little bit, just so the reparative tissue serum can fix the major damage before we start buffing away those dreadful scars."

It seems I don't have a choice and moments later I feel myself succumbing to the sweet song of morphling. The voices around me become muted and hazy, the hovercraft blurs into a haze of grey and blue steel. The thrum of the engines becomes soothing rather than irritating. My head lolls over to the side of its own accord. There's another gurney beside mine. At first I think it's empty but then a shadow takes form. Short, thin, dark haired and cold, dead eyes.

Rob turns his head to look at me. He smiles. Blood pours out of his mouth.

I shriek, bucking straight up on the stretcher, thrashing and squirming as hands try to hold me down. Voices are calling out to sedate me, knock me out now, but I fight them off, fight off the cobwebs threading through my brain. I have to get to Rob.

I roll over as hard as I can, tumbling from the stretcher onto the deck. I crawl, inch by inch, staring at the place where Rob was a moment ago, now just an empty stretcher with undisturbed sheets. I scream again, his name I think. There are cold fingers at the back of my neck and a colder pierce of metal. I'm unconscious before I can take another breath.

_Rob walks into my dreams with me. The blood is gone from his mouth, but his eyes are wide and cobwebbed._

"_Kill them all, Baria," he says in Pat's voice._

"_I did," I say. "I killed you. I killed all of you. I'm a Victor now."_

_The dream materializes into the ballroom. Half-insane laughter rings out of the mouth of the golden Cornucopia._

"_Citrine?" I ask as I take a step forward. "Is that you?"_

"_Kill them all, Baria" the laughter shrieks. "Kill them all."_

_I'm in the carriage house, watching the boy from 3 bleed out from what's left of his throat._

"_I killed you all!" I scream. There's a sword in my hand and I swing it left, right. "I killed every single one of you!"_

_I spin around and thrust the sword into Rob's stomach. He gasps and turns into Maura who turns into the boy from 10 who turns into Dido who turns into the Speaker._

"_I've missed you, Enobaria."_

_And they all laugh._

I wake up.

Cool, smooth sheets. Electronic beeping. A slight breeze of sterile, chemical air across my cheek.

"Kill dem…"

Voices. Shapes moving around me. A sharp pain in my arm as I try to sit up.

"Don't move, Enobaria. No, no, you listen to me girl, you lie right back down."

Mouth dry. Croaking a word. A glass pressed to my lips. Water. Trickling down my throat but not enough, not nearly enough.

"Reavers…"

I try to open my eyes but there's light, far too much light. It hurts.

PAT! THEY KILLED PAT! AND MAURA AND DECLAN!

I'm thrashing and screaming and pounding my fists against soft flesh that's holding me down. The village, I burned down the Reaver village, I killed them all and now I'm back in the Institute but I don't know how they've found me, why they've brought me here.

One voice pierces through the haze, strong, commanding. "Enobaria Malachite. You will stop this right now."

I take deep breaths. Try opening my eyes again. I see silver hair and pale eyes.

"Headmithtreth?"

"Yes, Enobaria Malachite. I'm here."

I keep my eyes closed, trying to make sense of things. "Headmithtreth. How did…yuh find me?"

"Find you? No, the rest of you, let me. Keep talking, Enobaria Malachite." A cool hand takes mine in hers.

"Duh village. Dogs. Reavers…"

"That was weeks ago, child."

"But…where am I?"

"In the Capitol." There's a pause, almost fearful. "You've won the Hunger Games, Enobaria Malachite."

The Hunger Games.

Volunteer reaping Pan cloven hooves lapis lazuli parade chariot interview Citrine rock climbing Tyde haircut Hera cornucopia bloodbath tributes corpse hunting kiss maze District 9 fireworks Rob lovers allies battering ram fire hunger parachute sword feast bread mold intestines glaive duck trumpets.

Teeth teeth teeth teeth teeth.

I open my eyes. Boudicca leans over above me and gives what could almost be called a smile.

"Welcome back, Enobaria Malachite."

The small room is starkly white, but the walls are hidden by an explosion of colors. Flowers, balloons, enormous gift baskets, even a cage of tiny twittering birds blanket every space. Fans, I suppose. Gathered around me are the Victors of District 2, all of them who came to the Capitol on the train. It feels like months ago that I saw them last.

I try to speak but my words come out strange and muffled. I register the strange taste of plastic in my mouth. Dido reaches over and grabs my other hand.

"No more talking, dewdrop. You're wearing a mouth guard, the surgeons haven't replaced your lost teeth yet. Let us explain."

I've been asleep in the infirmary beneath the Tribute Center for five days, apparently. Dido and Phoebus have had to hold of swarms of fans who have broken into the building twice to see me. My injuries were serious but not life threatening. I'm out of danger, but the process of 'rebuffing' (turning me from a shell of a person into the Capitol's standard of beauty) hasn't begun yet. District 2 is in full celebratory swing in the wake of another victory.

"And it's a good thing too. We lost another Victor when you were in the arena. Tiberius, the Victor of the Sixth, remember? Keeled over from an aneurysm. Finally ate himself to death. Personally I think you're a much better replacement."

Dido chatters on about the gossip in 2 as the other Victors busy themselves straightening my many bouquets. Finally Boudicca, who alone has remained still, clears her throat.

"I would like to have a moment with Enobaria alone. You'll all have plenty of time to get to know each other. Give your final regards and leave us."

Antigone squeezes my shoulder. "Well done, sister."

Phoebus says a few words about how I gave Orion an honorable final fight, but he doesn't meet my eyes before hurrying out. Brutus glances his way as he brushes past.

"First one is always the hardest," he says. "If he had to go down, I'm glad it was you who walked out in his place. Be seeing you in the Village. Sunday brunch at my place. Everyone comes." He follows Phoebus out.

Lyme, Virtus, Honorius. The great heroes of District 2 choose words (or in Lyme's case, a sharp cuff on the shoulder) to honor me. The newest child murderer of District 2.

I wonder if they're trying to convince me or themselves.

When only Dido and Boudicca are left, my mentor gives the Headmistress a look, clearly steeling herself to assert her right to stay. Boudicca raises an eyebrow. Dido rolls her eyes and picks herself up, leans over and kisses me on the forehead, and takes her leave.

"Can yuh teach me tuh do dat?" I grunt through the mouth guard.

"One day the Village will be in your care, Enobaria Malachite, and you will find these things come naturally."

"Yeth, Headmithreth."

"You are no longer a cadet, Enobaria," she says as she stands and let's go of my hand. "I am Boudicca, as I told you in the Justice Building."

I nod, but her back is turned so she doesn't notice. The Headmistress walks over to a window and throws open the curtain. Bright sunlight shines through, paler and purer than the lights of the infirmary. She opens the window and I moan as a breeze of cool summer air wafts around the room. A sound like a low thrum fills the air.

"Listen to them cheer. They adore you, Enobaria." She gazes out the window. "When you first returned to the Institute after your misadventure in the wilderness, I didn't see a girl. I didn't see a wounded cadet. You were an animal. Barely coherent, a creature of instinct. Hate. Vengeance."

She turns and this time she does smile. "You were like me, in other words, as I was so long ago. Raw iron, forged in the crucible of the Games into purest steel." She laughs. "Blight Gavin must be channeling his spirit, I'm a poet all of a sudden. Never mind. I knew, when I sent you into the Games, what they would do to you. I knew how you they would break you, reform you. I knew, from the moment you walked up to accept your nomination in the Great Hall, you would succeed. I never had any doubts. Not once.

Something wells up in my throat. I don't know why I'm getting emotional over the praise of a woman I've never much liked. "Thank yuh Head – Boudiccah."

"Shhh. Enough talk."

Boudicca stands over me. She fingers her long hair, almost nervously. "You've done all that can be asked of you, Enobaria. You survived an ordeal you never should have been subjected to. You stepped forward to replace a child. You represented the district with honor. You made sacrifices. You came back to us."

Boudicca walks around me and presses a small button on the medical console displaying my vitals. "And so now I ask forgiveness for what I am about to do."

Confusion wells in my stomach, then dread, then panic, but I can't do anything but grunt and recoil as two Capitol orderlies walk into the room. One of them is carrying a syringe larger than any I've ever seen.

"She's not ready, ma'am" the other orderly says as she looks down at her clipboard.

"We've run out of time," says Boudicca.

I can do nothing but watch as the syringe penetrates the crook of my arm, sending a solution filtering into my veins. First I feel cold, then white hot. Needles are prickling me from beneath my skin. My blood boils. My brain fractures into a hundred separate thoughts at once. All I can do is scream.

And then the fire in my veins pools into the pit of my stomach and spreads out to my very fingertips. Warm, sweet, vibrating. Strength. Power.

I suddenly feel as if I could leap over a mountain. Swim through a sea. Leap back into the arena and walk out again. I can do anything.

"How do you feel, Enobaria?" asks Boudicca, barely moving her lips.

How do I feel? _How do I feel?_ An insane bubble of laughter pops out of me. I give the thumbs up. It doesn't seem like enough. How do I feel? I'm damned near invincible, that's how I feel.

The orderly with a clipboard gives Boudicca a nervous look. "It's experimental," she says. "We've never tested it on human subjects before, but she seems to be responding positively. Vitals have peaked but they're stable. Adrenal levels are maximized. Accelerated healing should be in effect within the next two hours so the damage from the Games will continue to mend. She has three days. I warn you, the come down will be immense. It could kill her."

"Let me worry about that," says Boudicca. "Can you walk, Enobaria?"

Walk? I could run ten laps around the Pit and not break a sweat. I swing my legs over and spring out of bed, ripping the IV from my arm. I don't even feel the pain.

"Keep her hydrated!" calls the orderly as Boudicca takes my arm and leads me out of the infirmary.

There's a man in red with a cloth over his mouth waiting outside. An Avox.

"You know where we're going, Oenimus" says Boudicca. "The secure way, please."

The Avox bows and motions us to follow him. At the end of the hall he opens what looks to be a utility door and leads us into a dark passage. Pipes and vents hiss and whistle around us as we set off down the tunnel. I want to spring ahead and race to the end but I keep myself in check for the Headmistress. She's not a young woman anymore, after all.

I suppose I should be curious, or afraid, or panicking, but I'm too strong, too fearless for that. Whatever Boudicca had me injected with, it's made me more powerful than I've ever felt.

We take a flight of stairs, head down a new passage, then more stairs. The door at the top is heavy oak, beautifully carved. The Avox opens the door and motions us through. We're in another hallway, richly paneled with oak. My feet sink into the carpets beneath us. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling. At first I think I'm back in the arena, but no, that's impossible. A different palace. No need to panic. I laugh. It sounds hysterical even to my ears.

There are a few people around, Capitol folks, servants, they all give us gracious bows as we pass. Two Peacekeepers are standing at a set of double doors. They salute and open them. As I pass, one of them crosses his arms over her chest, the District 2 tradition.

A heavy scent of roses fills the air. I step outdoors into the bright sunlight. A rose garden rises up around us, filled with enormous blossoms that perfume the air with their heady scent. The Avox leads us to a gazebo, opens a final door, and motions us inside.

"Boudicca," comes a voice that for all its depth has the faint trace of a hiss. "My old friend. How good to see you here again."

The Headmistress bows deeply and motions for me to do the same. "Mr. President."

Coriolanus Snow smiles at us, his large lips parting to reveal wide, slightly pinkish teeth. Does he dye them, I wonder?

"And your newest Victor, of course. Enobaria Malachite. I was just watching a few of your highlights."

He motions towards a small viewing screen. I'm there, in the dress Madame Lucia made to make me look like a warrior, my newly shaved head glinting in the stage lights. I'm giving my interview. Caesar Flickerman looks slightly astonished. I still don't recall anything I actually said from that interview but when I see my expression I take a step back. Boudicca was right. I'm an animal.

"Boudicca, would you be so kind?" asks the President.

"Of course." The Headmistress bows again, gives me one long look, then steps outside. I watch as she sits beside a fountain, running her hands through the flowing water.

"Please sit, Enobaria," says Snow, gesturing towards an ornamental bench.

I don't want to sit. I want to run and fight and kill. But one does not refuse the President of the country. I take a seat, trying to keep my legs from twitching. It doesn't work.

The President chuckles. "I've never indulged in adrenal supplements myself, but I understand they pack quite a charge. I won't keep you long."

"Thank yuh mithtah Prethident."

"Oh please, spare yourself the inconvenience of talking. I'll keep it to yes or no questions so you can nod or shake your head."

I nod to show my gratitude. The President nods back.

"You are, as to be expected, quite popular here in the Capitol. It seems my people have grown bored of their half-insane outlier Victors. Phoebus, Crystal, now you. I'm sure you can understand how pleased I am that the Sixty-Second has produced yet another suitable, _loyal_ Victor."

I nod.

"Do you know why you are here, Enobaria? Do you truly understand the purpose of the Games?"

I'm not sure of the answer, so I don't shake or nod. The President inclines his head.

"Fear, yes. Hope, yes. But most of all, stability. I am not a moral man, Enobaria. I don't make any apologies for the cruelty or the injustice of the Games. I don't pretend that having children murder each other has any ethical purpose towards crimes committed sixty years ago. Let people like Boudicca fool themselves that the Games are right, or just, or necessary. What's important is that this system works. The Capitol is all that's left of civilization and it must survive if our species is going to progress rather than devolve into beasts. Are you following me thus far?"

I nod slowly.

"Good. I say this to you not because you are smarter than other Victors, but because you are unique. You alone have seen what our world would become with unlimited freedom, without a system of stability. The Games are cruel, yes, but ask yourself if it's preferable to the men and women you found yourself among. Animals feasting on animals."

I nod, more fervently this time. Snow chuckles.

"Some Victors believe in the official line, that they are heroes who have triumphed over the savagery of lower men. Boudicca of course. Ares. Roan, that fellow from 10. Most of the outliers are convinced of their own victimhood, satisfied to wallow in their own misery. Both serve my purposes. But I don't think you have illusions either way."

I nod again, even though I can't see where he's going with this. Snow seems to sense my confusion.

"Victors have duties, Enobaria. Whether it's entertainment, love, or rhetoric. In a stable system, we all have a role to play. While I've no doubt some among my people would pay for the pleasure of your company I will keep you away from that business, as I do the rest of your district's Victors. However, I will find use for you. Do you understand?"

Another nod.

"I need you to understand what that means, Enobaria. If I tell you to make a speech you make it. If I tell you to let your tribute die, you do it. If I give you a name and an address and instructions to make an end of it, you make an end of it."

So this is why I'm here. To be inaugurated as Snow's personal assassin. Strangely I can't dredge up much surprise. Or any emotion at all. I have a question but it can't be communicated in a nod or a shake, so I raise one eyebrow.

The President understands. "If you refuse? Well then, you return to District Two, a useless Victor to me. Your tributes die in the Games every year, you don't dare risk making friends or allies, your fellow Victors understand that they are to cut you off entirely if they don't want their loved ones disappearing in the night, and you spend the rest of your life haunted by your demons until you hang yourself in your closet with a curtain cord. Is that what you wish?"

I shake my head.

"I didn't think so. I'm glad we've come to an agreement. Now, I've taken enough of your time. Here's your first assignment."

Snow pulls a card out of a pocket in the lining of his suit jacket. Its heavy paper, embossed with gold script and sealed with wax. I break it open and read the two names inside.

Tears well up in my eyes. I clench the paper in my hand and look up at President Snow.

"Thank yuh."

He smiles, his teeth pinker than ever. I…I think its blood. "I'm glad you approve. Now, if there's nothing else, there's a hovercraft waiting on the roof of the Tribute Center that will take you and Boudicca to your targets."

I stand, shake the President's hand. "Misthah Prethident. My teeth…"

"I assure you, Enobaria, there will be time enough for cosmetic concerns once you're back and ready to be prepped for the Victory Ceremony.

"No. Not for dat. For him." Through words and gestures I try to make my meaning clear to the ruler of the country. When he understands, his snake lips break into a wide smile.

"Oh Enobaria. You truly are a Victor after my own heart. Come."

Snow leads me out of the glass gazebo and over to where Boudicca is sitting. She rises. "Mr. President. Enobaria."

"Boudicca, my dear friend. There's been a change of plans. Get Enobaria to the Remake Center. I will have the hovercraft meet you there."

Boudicca gives me a look of brief confusion but covers it well. "Of course, Mr. President."

Snow gives us one last nod. "A pleasure to meet you, Enobaria. I'm sure we will have a long and fruitful relationship."

He turns and returns to his roses.

* * *

The sterile air is cool against my freshly shaved head. The hovercraft soars through the lower atmosphere. We hit a bit of turbulence and I bite my tongue again. My mouth fills with blood, which I spit to the deck of the hovercraft. The Peacekeepers ignore it. All but one, who gives me a look of apprehension. He's young. Capitol. No doubt cheered me on during the Games. Now he looks like he wishes he were anywhere but strapped into a seat directly across from me.

I smile at him. I know each gold-tipped fang glistens. His face goes the shade and texture of goat cheese.

"Going off to war again, Enobaria?"

I look to my right. Citrine is seated next to me, her chest ripped open. She gives me her predatory grin.

"Go away, Citrine."

"So rude. But then you always were."

She leans over and kisses me. Her lips are soft, cool, and taste of blood and roses.

"_It was supposed to be me!"_

I close my eyes and take deep breaths. When I open them, Citrine is gone. The Peacekeeper seated next to me keeps his gaze ahead.

"Enobaria. We're about to arrive."

Boudicca's voice jolts me out of my hallucinations. I nod, accidentally biting my cheek. Another spit of blood. The hovercraft hums as it lowers in altitude. There's the gentlest of bumps as we land.

All around me, the Peacekeeper squad unbuckles and stands, ready for action. A door opens, ramp lowers, and they rush out. Boudicca holds me back until they've evacuated, then we walk out together.

Harsh sunlight blinds me at first. I shut my eyes for a moment. Smells rise around me. Earth. Chemicals. Ozone. Water. The climate sensitive bodysuit I'm wearing adjusts instantly, cooling my skin in the wake of the oppressive summer heat.

I clutch the piece of paper Snow gave to me to my chest. The names pound against me, as real as my own heartbeat.

_OTHO THE UNSPOKEN_

_THE SPEAKER_

I open my eyes as the hovercraft lifts off. Silos rise around me. Beyond them, nothing but fields upon fields of green.

A Peacekeeper with the insignia of a captain on his uniform steps forward to great us.

"Boudicca. Enobaria," he says as he snaps off a salute. "Glad you made it safely. Welcome to District Eleven."

* * *

**Did you all miss me?**

**Some of you know I got a new job, which involves ghostwriting ebooks for a software company. It's taken up most of my writing time this winter, since I still work my old job part-time. I'm working on finishing my remaining two fanworks. The goal is to finish **_**Bonds of Blood**_** entirely before moving back to The Victors Project.**

**Thank you all for the messages of concern and support. I promise these works will come to completion. You all have waited too long.**

**Oisin55**


	19. Chapter 19

The people standing or sitting around the repurposed granary are trying very hard not to look at me. Most are failing. Wide pupils dart toward me, whispers rise up and echo around the concrete walls. The words 'teeth' and 'Victor' and 'throat' hiss like serpents in the grass.

Boudicca stands behind me, an army in her own right, and this rag-tag assembly of local Peacekeepers and newly arrived reinforcements quickly turn away when their gaze goes from me to her. The only ones who never look my way are Chaff and Seeder, the two most recent Victors from 11. They stare at the Commander, their faces stony.

The Commander might have just come out from the arena himself. Greying uncombed hair, uniform lank around a wiry frame, deep circles under his weary eyes. He looks like he has one foot already in the grave, not the least because he knows the Capitol's patience with the continued attacks on 11 is growing very thin. Nevertheless when he stands at the podium he visibly comports himself and speaks with a deep, strong voice. He waves a hand and a holographic map of District 11 hovers in the air. The whispers in the room die and all eyes go forward. From the back of the room, I'm grateful for the shift of attention.

Citrine smiles at me from the corner of my eye. When I turn my head, she's gone.

"Pay attention, because I don't like repeating myself," says the Commander. "Most of you have been briefed, but for the rest of you here's the abridged version. On opening day of the Sixty-Second Games, the Reavers utilized the Capitol's distraction and laid siege to District Eleven. The outer wall fell the next day. The Reavers have moved into the district and have total occupation of sectors eight and thirteen in the southwest and have maintained a presence in sectors four, five, and twenty-eight. They also control most of the surrounding terrain outside the wall on the south and west sides.

"All attempts to push the Reavers back beyond the wall have been ineffective. Losses have been high, though fortunately civilian casualties are at a minimum. The residents of District 11 have been evacuated to the secure sectors and been told that the unsecure sectors are simply under quarantine. I remind you that any transfer of classified information about this operation to civilians is strictly prohibited." He doesn't need to glare at Chaff and Seeder for everyone to know to whom the last statement is directed.

"Why haven't we gotten air support?" asks a woman sitting in the front row.

"Why is the Capitol taking so long to sweep them out?" asks another man who has the look of District 11 to him.

The Commander glares. "All air support is currently directed to patrol the other districts in case this is a two or even three pronged attack. As for the Capitol, they have determined that we are sufficient to the task and we _will not question it." _

There's something under the Commander's sharp tone and it takes me a moment to recognize it. He's afraid. Afraid the men and women gathered here will realize just how bad the situation in 11 is.

He goes on. "At dawn we will mount another attack on their forces. The bulk of our forces will attack the enemy lines head on, as we attempted in the past. Captain Clay will be in command. In the meantime, Chaff and Seeder will lead the reinforcements through the utility tunnels that lead from the Victor's Village out under the wall."

I can't help but snort. I wonder how long those utility tunnels have been around, and what they were really built for. No wonder Chaff looks so sour.

"Captain Honoria will lead the reinforcements to take the main Reaver force in the rear. Cut off from their retreat as well as their own reinforcements, they'll be smashed against hammer and anvil. Any questions?" There are none. "Good, report to your commanding officer and gear up. Victors, remain for a private word."

As the Peacekeepers stand and begin to file out of the granary, Boudicca and I push our way through to the front of the room. Chaff and Seeder join us there and now Chaff is looking at me, his eyes full of unrestrained hatred. I taste birthday cake and blood and I look away. Seeder gives me a soft nod and Boudicca's hand rests on my shoulder.

"How could you have let this happen?" asks Boudicca without preamble. "How have a band of savages managed to hold off the Capitol's own men for almost a month? If this were Two –"

"But this isn't Two, Headmistress, and it's more than just a band. There are thousands of them. Thousands." The Commander presses a thumb and finger to the bridge of the nose. "Their weapons are crude but they've been effective. They strip guns and PEDs off anyone they kill and they know how to use them. And they're organized. They fight as units, not crazed beserkers like they used too." He sighs. "They have this leader, some warlord. Otto something."

"Otho the Unspoken." I say.

The Commander nods. "Yes, although my sources says it's his lieutenant who's the more dangerous. How they managed to unite every Reaver clan on the continent, I don't want to know. They've obviously been planning this for years."

"Just how bad is it, Commander?" I ask.

He looks at me. "It's bad, ma'am. Each time they attack, they press further into the district. If they took over, if they had the wall, half the food in Panem under their control, a hundred thousand new people to enslave…"

He leaves the rest unsaid. _They could threaten the Capitol itself._ 11 was built to be a prison. The Reavers mean to turn it into a fortress.

"I still don't see why you haven't firebombed them into oblivion," says Boudicca. "And spare me that rubbish about patrols."

"The Reavers are smart," says the Commander. "The sector where they broke the wall, where they have total control is where the domes are."

I remember hearing about the domes at the Institute long ago. Each as big as an arena, they're climate controlled environments where the district grows food the climate can't support. Coffee, sugarcane, cocoa, rice.

"The President has made it clear that under no circumstances are we to lose the domes," says the Commander. "So we're doing this the old fashioned way."

"And where do I fit in?" I ask. "The President has given me an assignment –"

"I know all about your assignment, Enobaria." the Commander says, his eyes reflecting half-incredulity and half-reverence. "When Chaff and Seeder go through the utility tunnels, you'll accompany them. Once outside the district, you'll separate from Captain Honoria. Otho and his lieutenant have been hiding in a cave, sheltered from bombs and scanners alike. We know the general area."

I stare him. "But that could still take _weeks_."

"You'll have a guide," says the Commander. "Name of Matthos. He's in sector twenty-one with the rest of the evacuees. You'll recruit him there."

"And how do you know this Matthos will be an able guide in these caves?" asks Boudicca.

"Because Peacekeepers have caught him in there twice," says the Commander. "Would have put a bullet in his head the first time but the Capitol liaison interfered both times. Claims his daughter has a fancy for him, although I'm pretty sure this Matthos is his drug dealer. Can't prove it but…" the growl under the Commander's voice is unmistakable. "Well, thank Snow I didn't. Otherwise this Otho and his dog would have been out of our reach."

"The Capitol provides," Boudicca says, and the Commander murmurs a reply. Chaff rolls his eyes.

"I would not talk to Chaff," says Seeder in a low voice as we leave the granary. "The resentment fades but he did a lot for that cake."

"I don't need him to speak," I say. "I need him to get me outside the walls without the Reavers knowing."

Seeder nods. "He'll do it. He may not like Twos, but Snow preserve anyone who threatens his people. Take this Otho down and you'll never be short of beer and ale. Brewing is his talent, and he's good. Eleven remembers its debts."

I'm not sure that's comforting, but Boudicca takes my arm anyway. "Come, Enobaria Malachite," she says. "It seems we have a drug dealer to find."

* * *

Another repurposed granary, this one filled with squalling babes, frightened children, weary old people, parents desperately trying to keep their families together in the chaos. The sour smell of urine and sweat thickens the air. Boudicca and I push through the crowd, asking anyone around for the man called Matthos.

They point him out to us quickly enough. I'm taken by surprise for a moment. Matthos is older than I by a year, no more. He's bright eyed with a wide smile and dark skin common among the Elevens, well built and muscled with the hard callouses of a field worker. He's sitting on one of the hastily constructed bunks and surrounded by people, his family perhaps, dangling a tiny girl on his knee as an old woman crotches some shapeless garment from grey yarn beside him.

Boudicca hangs back as I approach. "That one yours, Matthos?"

"Naw, niece," he replies without looking up. "Her daddy's still out in the fields, orchards still got to be watered even when there's sickness."

Sickness. I snort.

"Well find her a wet nurse. I need you more."

He looks up at me and frowns. "You're not Eleven."

"No."

The frown deepens. "And you ain't no Peacekeeper."

I bare my teeth at him, letting the gold glint in the pale light.

Matthos drops the girl onto the bunk beside him and leaps to his feet. "Enobaria?"

I smile. "I see you've been watching television lately."

"Yeah I…I saw you! You won the Hunger Games!"

I glance back at Boudicca. Matthos looks behind me.

"And Boudicca! Wow! You were always one of the best! I mean, the best, obviously, because you came out, meaning no disrespect ma'am."

The Headmistress's voice is amused. "I was before your time, child."

"I saw recaps," says Matthos, his eyes like saucers. His aren't the only ones staring at us now. "When you took out the boy from One, I had nightmares about that for a week."

Boudicca sounds almost taken aback. "_Thank _you."

"So," Matthos throws his shoulders back, stands up a bit taller, and his voice hilariously deepens by about half an octave. "What, eh, services could I be rendering such a beautiful and deadly Victor?"

I finger one of the several knives on my belt. "I need to you help me find a pig hiding in a cave, so that I can butcher him and his dog."

Matthos frowns. "Don't know why you folk think I'd know anything about caves or –"

My arm lashes out and my hand is around his throat. Several people scream. I ignore them.

"I went through blood and hell to get out of that arena, Matthos. I went in there for one purpose, to achieve one goal, and I am this close," my fingers tighten, "to achieving that goal, so why don't you not waste my time with feeble protests and instead be thankful that it's only my hand on your throat."

I let go. He falls to the ground, gasping for breath.

"Shit," he whispers. "Damn." He looks up. "Hell! Enobaria Malachite threatened me!"

No one around us seems remotely impressed by that declaration, save Boudicca who I swear is trying not to laugh. I'm reaching for my knife when he holds up his hands.

"No need, no need. I'm yours, Enobaria. Take me, and I shall service you in whatever way you require."

"Cut the innuendos unless you want to lose the ability to service anyone ever again." I say. "Gather your things and we'll brief you on the way."

Matthos is grabbing a few personal items and trying to pry his crying niece from his leg when a hand reaches out and grabs my sleeve. I snap around and have the arm in my hand when I realize it's the old woman.

"I could have broken your arm," I say as I release her. "It's not wise to touch a Victor, woman."

She does nothing but motion me down towards her.

"No MawMaw Lime," says Matthos. "She doesn't have time for one of your boring stories."

There's something about the woman that makes me step close. Stars are sparkling in her eyes. I kneel down until my ear is inches from her mouth.

"It is good to have you home, child."

"No, MawMaw," says Matthos loudly. "Enobaria isn't from Eleven. She's from Two. Two, Mawmaw."

MawMaw Lime shakes her head vigorously. "Shush yourself and listen to your elders, boy. She's home, you hear me? She's with her blood."

"I'm sorry, Matthos says to me. "MawMaw doesn't always remember who people are, thinks I'm PawPaw more often than not."

I hardly hear him. "My grandfather was from Eleven," I say softly. "Him or his father. I'm not sure."

The woman nods. "Blood draws blood, child. And you have much blood left to draw. But they will always bring you back home. The bonds of blood will bring you home. You will return here, child. It is where you are meant to be." And with that proclamation Mawmaw Lime leans back and is asleep before I can blink.

"Sorry," Matthos mutters as I stand. "I'm ready."

I follow Boudicca out of the granary, back through the crowds of evacuees. Matthos is frowning.

"It doesn't mean anything," I say to him. "Look at my skin. I'm darker than most people from Two. It's a fairly easy guess that I have Eleven relatives from back."

"Yeah, easy enough guess," says Matthos, "Except." His frown deepens. "She told me once I would stand among Victors. My Maw panicked, thought she meant I'd be going into the Games until I passed my last reaping. And here we are."

"Could have used some more details about what would happen when you did," I mutter.

"I don't care what any prophecy says," he states. "Stories for children."

"Perhaps you should," I reply. "Because the children's stories have come to Eleven."

* * *

The Capitol certainly dresses me well for my first assassination. The temperature regulated body suit with a visor that provides night vision, coordinates, and other relevant data. My knives as well as my own PED and a belt of fire grenades. And the sword, the arena sword, the Reaver sword. I'm not surprised that Boudicca brought it when she hands it to me in the Victor's Village. As for Boudicca, she'll be in constant contact through an earpiece from a base in one of the empty Victors' houses.

I reflect that if I had this sort of arsenal going into the Games, they would have ended in twenty-minutes.

Matthos asked for a weapon as well, but no one was willing to provide him with even a knife. He'll have to make do with a pair of the night-vision binoculars the workers in 11 use in the orchards after night falls.

My erstwhile guide wolf-whistles when I walk into Chaff's sitting room. I give him a hard cuff that just makes him grin harder.

"I think we're all set," says Chaff to the group of about twenty of us. "Seeder will be taking the main group through the old utility tunnels that go through the Justice Building. Remember your orders, you're to scout the area only under her forces reach us."

The dozen or so Peacekeeper commandos make affirmative grunts. Their bodysuits, boots, and an entire armory's worth of weaponry is a startling contrast to the back drop of Chaff's sitting room with its seashells on the mantel, spindly chairs, and delicate china figurines displayed in a cherry-wood cabinet.

"Seeder's forces are moving," comes Boudicca's voice in my head. "Prepare to move out."

The commando captain tilts her head at the same time as she receives her own instructions, then she motions us forward. "To the cellar, everyone. Chaff, after you."

I glance out the window at the square in the Victor's Village where the dawn light is just the faintest grey shadows. Boudicca is standing at the brightly lit window in the empty house across the way. She lifts a hand as I turn away and follow the commandos into the basement.

Chaff pushes aside a hidden door beneath the cellar starts and gestures us forward with the stub of his other arm. Matthos and I are the last ones in. The tunnel is low and lit by dim red lights along the walls. The concrete walls and steel beams are too well-built for the tunnel to be clandestinely made by the Victor's. I wonder again what its original purpose was.

Beside me, Matthos is sweating profusely, whether from the stuffy heat or nerves I don't know. On my other side Tyde glides along with deep-set dead eyes, the smell of charred flesh wafting after him.

We hear what must be Seeder's group as we take turn after turn in the maze of tunnels, but I never catch a glimpse of anyone but the dozen or so commandos ahead of me. After what must be at least an hour the floor starts slanting up. I turn a corner and squint as pink-orange light floods the end of the tunnel. Dawn has come, and the sounds of battle are already echoing though the wasteland around 11.

"The battle's started, dammit," says Boudicca in my ear. "You're going to come out with the wall a hundred yards behind you. Head south-south-west from there, you should have a clear run to the caves."

"Go go go!" shouts the commando captain as the commandos surge forward. I push Matthos forward and follow him out. For a moment my eyes meet Chaff's as he turns back into the tunnels. The moment passes and I step out into the open air.

The tunnel leads out into a small copse of gnarled trees and for a moment the smells and dancing leaves send the arena surging back into my mind. I shake my head and it passes. Outside the copse the land is barren and lifeless. Bones from weeks-old battles lay strewn about on the ground among the scorch marks of grenades and missiles. Behind us the great wall of 11 rises up like a grey sentinel. The collapsed section is like a wound, rubble strewn about like giant's building blocks. Shouts and screams from the distant battle echoes through the empty sky.

There's movement to my left and I push Matthos down as three Reavers come running past, two men and a woman. My fingers ache, the sword feels hot beneath my palm, it would be so easy to leap out and cut them down. But no, I must have control, they are not my target.

"Move," I whisper to Matthos when the danger's past. My visor has a built in compass and I head south-southwest.

"You know," says Matthos as we cross a kilometer of burned out forest. "Ditch the helmet and the fancy gear and we could make a run for it. Heat of the battle, they'd just figure someone got the jump on us. Just imagine, no Games, no Snow, no Capitol, just two young people in the great wild, making our own life."

"I'm no traitor," I hiss as I pass what I think is the half-decayed corpse of a horse.

"Oh that's right," Matthos grins that insolent smile at me. "You're a _Vic_tor."

"That's right," I say. "That what you were doing out here when they caught you? Trying to make a run for it?"

The smile widens. "Naw. Nothing like that. Mostly."

"I'm beginning to wish I'd brought MawMaw Lime with me instead" I mutter. "At least she'd shut up."

Matthos laughs. "If her bones cracking didn't bring down every Reaver for a mile."

I hit him hard enough to shut him up, for now.

"You're coming up to the entrance to the caves," says Boudicca. "It will appear as a deep, narrow fissure in the hillside."

It takes more time than I'd like to find the fissure. It's barely a foot and a half wide and half covered by ivy and brambles against the side of a rise of earth, hardly large enough to be called a hill. Neither Matthos nor I have trouble squeezing through. I'm still emaciated from the Games, he's thin and wiry as it is.

Boudicca's voice crackles as we step into the dark caves. "Forward…can't…Speaker will….antechamber…" and then it goes dead.

"Boudicca?" I whisper. "Boudicca? Damn." The tons of earth above our heads much be interfering with the signal.

"Well, you didn't bring me for my company or my good looks," says Matthos. He's put on his night-vision goggles and now he slinks forward into the caves. "Follow me, Enobaria Malachite. Don't stare too hard at my assets from back there." He winks.

I briefly fantasize about sticking my sword through his neck before following. The caves dip deep into the earth, twisting and turning down through wet bedrock. I shiver. Four years ago there was an arena in a cave system, a huge maze of chambers and rushing rivers. These caves are nothing like those. At times they're no larger than a ventilation shaft and we have to crawl on our hands and knees.

"This can't be right," I whisper. "There's no why Otho could have made it this far. He's _fat."_

"There's another entrance miles down," Matthos says. "Bigger, wider. Don't reckon any of the Reavers know the entrance we came in through. We'll catch them like a tracker jacker in a hive."

"How long do the caves go on through?" I ask.

"Miles."

My heart sinks. "So he could be anywhere."

"Nah," says Matthos. "If this really is their base, there's only one place they could be. There's a huge chamber up ahead, big enough to house a few dozen people. Got to be there."

"You could be wrong," I say. "You could get us lost. They could have set up guards. They might-"

"Will you _trust _me, Enobaria?" asks Matthos. "I'm not some damn Career out to stab you in the back!"

That nearly does get him stabbed, but I need the bastard. I settle for shoving his ass forward. "Keep that mouth shut, Eleven."

After ten more minutes of crawling, the cave opens up into a long, wide passage. Matthos and I slide along the wall. My legs ache but I keep my focus forward. There's light ahead.

I was right. They did set up guards at the entrance to the massive cave chamber. They lie on the ground staring up, their throats slashed open.

"Something's wrong," I whisper. "Stay here."

I push Matthos down behind a nub of rock and step out into the chamber. There are tents and bins of food and supplies stacked around a campfire. Standards hang limply in the still air. A dog slinks out of a tent, stares at me, then crouches down and licks a wound on its leg.

The dead are sprawled around the fire, five of them, slashed open or gunned down. A quick glance confirms that none of them are Otho or the Speaker.

The largest tent is made of sewn hides and looms over in the dim, flickering light. The flap is half open. I take a deep breath, unsheathe my sword, and my PED, and leap inside.

Otho the Unspoken sits on his throne. There's a horn of wine in one hand and a dead woman at his feet. His eyes are open, vacant, surprised, looking down at the mess of what was once his stomach. His intestines are sliding out like grey green snakes.

"Damn you," I say, furious tears building in my eyes. Too late. Always too late. "Damn you."

There are footsteps behind me. "I told you to wait outside," I say as I brush the wetness away with one rough hand.

"But I've waited so long to see you again, Enobaria," says the Speaker.

A gun fires.


	20. Chapter 20

The bullet hits my right shoulder, glancing off the bulletproof synthfabric to ricochet around the tent. I'm down on the hard ground, tasting dirt and cold ashes and my own blood in my mouth. Knives of pain are throbbing into my shoulder, and I'm sure my whole side will be a flowered bruise in a day. If I live that long.

Behind me I hear the sounds of a struggle. With a gasp of agony I pull myself to my feet. The Speaker and Matthos are on the ground, wrestling each other, a gun lying just out of reach. It seems, fortunately or unfortunately, that my irritating guide has saved my life and prevented the bullet from going through the back of my head.

"Speaker!" I scream.

He looks up and our eyes meet and it's like I'm back in my nightmares. The boyish, once handsome face, the hideous scar, the eyes burning with hate. He's naked except for dog hide trousers and the blood on his torso. The moment lingers until Matthos grabs up a rock from the ground and strikes the Speaker's face.

He snarls, leaps again for the gun as blood pours down from a gash in his temple, but the pain in my shoulder recedes and adrenaline propels me forward. My fingers close over the gun as his own claw the back of my hand.

"Matthos, move!"

He rolls away and for one shining moment the Speaker's eyes are big and dark and full of fear as I pull the trigger.

There's a click. Nothing more.

The Speaker laughs, high and loud. "Oh Enobaria. Always unlucky."

I toss the gun away and pull out my sword. "I don't need bullets to end you, Speaker."

He grins as he produces two long, serrated knives from a pocket. "I saw you in the Games, Enobaria. We hijack the signal sometimes. You were magnificent, cutting down untrained children and arrogant pups. Like you did my people."

"Hypocrite," I hiss. We're circling one another now, taking long, slow steps around an invisible center of gravity. "Or are you going to pretend Otho and the rest of these aren't your handiwork?"

The Speaker grins again. "He had his uses, I admit. His line goes far back, generations of Reavers, from before the Dark Days. I needed him to get the more traditionally minded chieftains on my side. But now the entire Reaver nation is under my command, laying waste to District Eleven. I didn't need Otho anymore. I disposed of him. Like I'm going to do you."

"And then you'll be chief of nothing but bones," I say. The tension is about to break, my shoulder is still burning, but I keep him talking. "The Peacekeepers are attacking your Reavers right now."

He laughs. "Fools. They'll be dashed apart just like the last dozen times they attempted it. We have the wall on our back."

"There's an enormous hole in the wall, last I checked."

"We have control of the land outside, Malachite. There's no sneaking up on us, unless you have eagle mutts to carry you over the wall."

"And yet here I am," I say. "And all we needed was Chaff and Seeder."

His face shows uncertainty, just for an instant, but I take the opening and leap for his face, my sword raised. The Speaker moves with unnatural speed, throwing one of his knives, and something's all wrong. His stance, his shoulders, they're all wrong, and only when the knife leaves his fingers do I realize he's not aiming for me.

I spin, my sword cutting a silver arc through the air. I see Matthos' shocked face as I deflect the knife mere inches from his neck. I complete the spin and cut back down towards the Speaker, only to see him racing out of the chamber down the cavern.

"No! NO!"

Enobaria!" Matthos screams behind me but I ignore him. I run, run, run, stumbling and leaping over boulders as I race after the Speaker.

Twice I'm sure I've lost him, but I stop and still my breath and heart and I can hear his desperate footsteps. It seems to take far less time to leave the caves than it took to sneak into them. The Speaker is not going the way Matthos led me, instead the cavern gets wider and the stone gets wetter until I stumble out of a great yawning mouth in the side of another low hill.

There are Reavers running past, fleeing the battle in ragged groups or singularly. Some are wounded. None of them concern me and we ignore each other. I head the opposite direction, knowing that's where the Speaker will go. Back towards the wall and the district. Towards his army and his people.

The corpses litter the ground as the wall rises up before me. My breath is coming in great ragged gasps, but I pull forward, thanking Boudicca for the adrenal stimulant she gave me back in the Capitol that has carried me beyond what any human should be able to endure. The gaping hole in the wall is half choked with dead bodies, some in Peacekeeper whites but the skins and masks of the Reavers far outnumber them. I climb over them, refusing to think about what I'm stepping on, and stumble down into chaos.

The battle is still raging. Bullets fly past me, one so close it makes my stubbly hair ruffle. Some Reavers are fighting hand to hand, other groups kneel with their eyes clenched closed and their hands up, hoping for the Capitol's mercy. The air smells of smoke and blood and the acidity of sweat and fire. For a moment I curse, thinking I've lost the Speaker for good, but then I see a distant figure look back as if checking for pursuers. I grit my teeth and surge after him.

I can't go on much longer, the stimulant seems to be reaching the end of its potency, but I pull up another reserve of strength as I race another mile into the district. Now the domes are rising up before us, massive and beautiful as they reflect the dark smoke and leaping tongues of fire. The screams of battle are softer here. Two domes rise on either side of me, and there, at the very end of the one on my left, the Speaker kicks in a small utility door and darts inside.

I pause at the fallen door, taking heaving breaths, then follow.

And I'm back in the arena.

Tall, slender trees rise around me. Somewhere, there's a trickle of a waterfall. Some of the trees bear what I vaguely recognize to be coconuts. Others are shorter with dark pods growing from their trunks. _Cocoa pods_. The name comes to me, though I have no idea how.

I raise my sword. My lips are dry and cracked and I lick them furiously as I listen for something other than the trickle of water and the rustling of leaves. I take a few more steps inside.

"Come to kill me, Enobaria?"

I spin around but the voice echoes all around me, followed by half insane laughter.

"Come to kill me for your friends? Pat, wasn't it? Poor, poor boy. And Declan, the brave man. And what was that little slut's name? Maura?"

My hands are shaking, blood pounds through my temples, but I keep silent. He's trying to get me to talk, to discern my location. I consider staying here to guard the door and wait for backup, but I decide against it. He's mine. It's time to end this. I move forward until the trees swallow me up.

"Or maybe you just like killing by now. The girl from Five. What did that poor sullen thing ever do to you? The boy from Ten, well I would have killed him too and maybe eaten his heart afterwards. That pretty thing from One, your friend, right? And let's not forget the boy from Three. Maybe I'll give you a little bite, Enobaria."

More laughter. More silence. More trees standing sentinel. I come to where the waterfall is tumbling down from a sandstone ledge. His voice is louder.

"I wasn't lying, in the camp. You were my favorite. Then, and in the arena. I cheered for you. I waited for you. You butchered my people and I wasn't going to let some cattle boy take my kill. You're mine, Enobaria, and I'm yours. We understand each other. Like lovers. Like only monsters can."

At the word _monsters_ he leaps down from the ledge.

This time I'm not taken by surprise. He's gotten a sword, probably scooped it up from the battlefield. It comes down in a mercurial arc but my blade is up and blocking it. I thrust towards him and he parries and then our swords are locked in the dance.

My blood is singing. This is the battle I was denied during my Games. Just me and my sword and no cameras, no audience, just me and a man I want very much to kill.

The Speaker feints a thrust at my side then whirls around and catches me on my bad shoulder. The synthfabric doesn't break for the blade any more than it did for the bullet but I still go down with a scream of pain as red-hot pain lances through my back.

"Poor Enobaria Malachite. To have come so far only to be bested at the very end."

I spit out a wad of phlegm and blood.

"No one to cheer for her. No one to cry for her. Alone, in the dark."

I feel the cold touch of metal against my neck.

"I'm not alone," I say.

And as the Speaker lifts the sword for the killing blow, they walk out from between the trees. Citrine. Orion. Rob. Mercury, Hera, Tiller, Codey, and all the rest.

I draw on Mercury's unearthly speed and roll away as the sword comes down. It's Citrine's flexibility and Orion's strength behind me as I leap to my feet. The Speaker's eyes widen and he blocks my sword thrust, barely, but Hera's rage is coursing through me and I pound at him again and again. Now it's the Speaker weakening, stumbling back, his thrusts and slashes becoming more wild and desperate.

I drive him back against one of the cocoa trees, followed by the specters of the tributes. I aim a thrust for his neck but impossibly he ducks aside. My sword drives into the tree and sticks there.

The Speaker gives a crow of triumph and cuts down at me. I abandon the sword. One hand grabs his wrist, stopping the blade inches from my neck. My shoulder is screaming but I do not yield. The Speaker is staring at me with wide, insane eyes.

Rob leans and whispers in my ear. _Kill them all, Baria._

Slowly, deliberately, as if I had all the time in the world, I pull out one of my knives with my free hand and stick it in the Speaker's stomach.

He drops his sword and stumbles back. Looks at me at disbelief and then down at the knife in his belly.

"Hurts…"

I step towards him.

"Wait!" he screams. He coughs and blood comes up. "Wait, Enobaria."

"That's a belly wound," I say. "If you don't want me to leave you to die in agony, you'll say whatever it is you have to say quickly."

"Ask…ask me a question, Enobaria Malachite. Ask…me a…question."

I turn away and take the hilt of my sword, still stuck in the tree. It takes three tugs to free it. Behind me, I hear the groan of pain as the Speaker pulls my other blade from his stomach. I get a glimpse of intestines before he clutches his hand to the wound.

I level my sword against his neck. "Who are you, Speaker?" I ask.

He looks up at me. There are tears in his eyes. "My name is Britannicus Romano. They…They called me Tanni." Another cough. More blood. "I was…a Peacekeeper. In one of the outer districts. I fell in love…she was…beautiful. They took her from me. _They took her from me!"_ he roars.

Somehow I know he's telling the truth. A suspicion hits me with the force of a tribute train.

"She was a Victor."

"She was…so beautiful. She carried my child. They condemned me to death…fraternizing…." The coughs are more frequent, more ragged. "I ran. I promised her I'd return." Tears are pouring down his face now. "All of this. For her…it was all….for her. Overthrow the Capitol. Free the districts. No more….Snow. We'd….be together. For…Cecelia."

He can barely keep himself from falling over. I'm filled with revulsion, hate, and pity. The woman from 8 flickers across my mind, dark and proud and so, so angry. The memory is clear as the smell of cocoa and earth around us.

I toss my sword down to the ground. Kneel in front of the Speaker. Britannicus. Tanni. Whoever he is. I place a hand on the back of his neck.

"Silly little bird," I whisper.

I tear out his throat. My mouth fills will blood and tendon and muscle. As Britannicus gurgles and dies I spit what's left of his neck out and begin to laugh.

I'm still laughing when Matthos leads several Peacekeepers into the dome and finds me cradling the Speaker, drenched in blood. I laugh as they hose me down from a utility faucet and lift me into a military transport. I laugh as I'm driven across the length of District 11, away from fire and smoke and death and into the safe sectors. I laugh as the Commander prattles something about total victory in the repurposed granary and Chaff and Seeder look at me with something close to horror.

It's only after Boudicca bundles me up in a warm quilt in the sitting room of one of the empty Victors' houses and presses a cup of hot tea into my hands that my laughs finally subside and the tears flow freely.

Five days later, I rise onto the stage at the Victory Ceremony for the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games.

No one knows, I've been told. Even the citizens of District 11 are mostly unaware of how close they came to slaughter or enslavement. Here in the Capitol, the citizens are blissfully unaware that anything exists beyond the Games and parties and breast implants and Minister Tremwell's accidental flatulence in the presence of the President and his granddaughter.

Dido whispers all of this over breakfast as if worried that I'll be mad that no one is pinning medals to my chest. All I do is ask how they'll explain it in 2 when dozens of Peacekeepers come back in body bags. Dido says the official story is a terrorist bomb in one of the barracks. The rest of the districts are completely oblivious.

I take another sip of my cream of mushroom and snail soup and say nothing.

The preps chitter and chatter around me as they dress me in a white silk dress artistically splattered with red dye. It's not Madame Lucia's most subtle piece, but I suppose the audience gets what it wants. The accents are lapis lazuli again. Madame Lucia shaves my head except for the strip down the middle. It's my signature look apparently.

"We're all very proud of you, my child," she says.

"I'm no child," I say. "Maybe I was when I went in. Not anymore."

"I believe you are right," she replies, and we say no more.

The crowds cheer and hoot and holler as I step onto the stage with my preps and Lucia and Dido. I raise a fist and bare my teeth and they go wild. The golden, sharpened points of my teeth are projected on screens dozens of feet high. I run my tongue over them and let a trickle of blood run down my chin.

Caesar hurries over and wipes my face clean with his own handkerchief, which he then throws to the crowd. There are a few questions; _How does it feel, are you as overwhelmed as I am, what lipstick are you wearing?_ Then the President steps on stage holding a crown of silver and moonstones.

"Congratulations, Enobaria, on all of your achievements. I was most satisfied with the reports."

I bow my head. "I live to serve, Mr. President."

The crown is placed on my head. I stand up straight and the crowd screeches with glee.

I'm led to the Victor's throne for the recaps. _The Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games!_ is splashed across every screen, with a fanfare of trumpets and a montage of the past Victors. Cora, Luster, Chaff, Haymitch, Wiress, Phoebus, Crystal, and then right into the reapings in District 1 where Citrine is smiling and twirling on the stage.

The preliminary events go by in a rush. I'm the focus, of course, with Orion and Citrine as my supporting cast and Codey as the devious evil mastermind. The rest of the alliance is barely shown at all. I finally get to watch my interview with Caesar. I don't even hear the words. It's my eyes that draw the crowd. Wild, gleaming, thirsty eyes below carefully plucked eyebrows.

I wonder, not for the first time, how much of my mind I left in that Reaver camp.

The Games start, and children die again.

I sit on an ebony and teak throne, cushioned by velvet, wearing a dress that costs more than most houses in the lower districts. I'm surrounded by hordes of people, beautiful, altered, plastic people. They watch children die and scream and gasp and cheer and roar.

And it's only then that I finally realize the truth. I see the trap, the snare. But too late. Far too late.

I'm in the Cage.

I'm still in the Cage in the camp, and I will always be in the Cage. These people, the cream of Panem, they are the Reavers in fancy hats. Just as bloodthirsty, just as savage.

I sold them my soul and they threw me in a Cage I cannot escape from.

I sold them my blood and they cheered for more.

I sold them my body and they made it there's.

I sold them my life and the Speaker, the real Speaker is sitting on the balcony on his mansion sipping champagne between his snake-like lips.

I scream. I can't hold it in.

They think it's enthusiasm.

They come for me in my dreams, later when I'm sleeping in the Tribute Tower after staring at the ceiling for hours. They come and grab me, pinch me, stab me kill me. The bars of the Cage rise around us and the crowd screams and cheers as the twenty-three dead tributes rule my nightmares.

I dream the same dream the next night, and the next night, and the next. I dream forever.

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

_Kill them all, Baria._


	21. Interim

_Interim_

_Enobaria Malachite returned home to District 2 as one of the most legendary Victors in that district of legends. Parades, parties, guest appearances at the Wintermas gala, the public never quite got over their obsession with 2's most brutal female Victor. Her Victory Tour lasted nearly half again as long as the previous years; there were just too many interviews, speeches and photo ops to cram into a couple of weeks._

_The lower districts loathed her of course, but that was to be expected. Even in 11, although few knew that Enobaria had gone on to save them from the delusions of a psychopath. Matthos was invited to the banquet however. Well, as a server. He snuck a kiss when she ducked out to use the bathroom and they met in the hall. He earned a bruise on his upper jaw for his trouble._

_She still came back to the table smiling._

_At first it seemed that Enobaria would simply go the way of the other popular Victors. Lead a few tours at the opening of her arena (one of the most popular ever). Make guest appearances on Caesar's show during the Games. Host a silly television special on her talent (aerobic dance). But then the first card arrived, with the first name, and the next morning a prominent actress was found in her bathtub with her wrists slashed. It was ruled a suicide._

_The names came over the years, maybe one or two a year. Names of people the President and his agents couldn't reach easily, people who a Victor with all her privileges could get close to. A banker one winter, his wife the following summer. The Minister of the Courts. A Peacekeeper lieutenant in 10. The head of Delacroix House in District 1._

_She never lost a target. But as the seventh decade of the Games dragged on and more brilliant and beautiful and insane Victors came out of the arena, Enobaria lost the will to keep up her mask. She was an animal, they told her, so an animal she became. The tabloids were filled with her exploits in kinky sex clubs, drug dens, and illicit betting circles. No one cared, except for her fellow Victors who watched her sink into her own depravities. No one cared, least of all Coriolanus Snow, so long as she continued to serve her purposes._

_Boudicca attempted to draw out the Victor she had fought for by suggesting she become a mentor. Enobaria laughed at the idea. No one was less suited to be a mentor, she'd say. After all, the only advice she had to give was 'Kill them all.' So she thought right up until Annie's Games when she first caught sight of a vicious, violently unstable cadet at the Institute with a remarkable talent with knives._

_Enobaria sponsored Clove in the trials, and if the amount of potentials that year who suffered debilitating injury was unusually high, no one mentioned it._

_She was confident in her Victor's chances, even up against Cato the perfect tribute. Even after most of the reaping broadcast was focused towards a scrawny dark girl from 12 of all places who volunteered in for her sister._

"_Any last advice?" Clove asked the night after the interviews, after throwing a knife into the image of the Girl on Fire plastered on the television screen._

_Enobaria smiled. "Kill them all."_

_And no one can say that Clove didn't try._

_As she lay on the ground beneath the shadow of the Cornucopia, her head dented in and Cato screaming at her to come back, to pull through it, Enobaria reminded herself that she didn't believe in karma, even as she refused to look at Chaff. She took no pleasure in the death of the boy from 11 at Cato's unmerciful hands. It was the Games. Shit happens._

_Enobaria got three cards that autumn, and each time she thought it was going to be the Girl on Fire and the baker boy, but no. Three mayors died that season, from Districts 3, 4, and 8. Even on her brief trips, Enobaria could see the unrest that was brewing in the lower districts. Everdeen was the root of it, everyone knew that. Boudicca was quite vocal about it and Enobaria suspected she wouldn't hesitate to sneak into 12 and do the deed herself if given the chance. Katniss's days were numbered, that was a certainty. She just wondered what was taking Snow so long._

_The Quell card was read._

_Enobaria knew it would be her. Lyme was a possibility, everyone suspected she might have rebel sympathies (being from Redfern was enough). But Enobaria knew she was the more likely candidate. Snow would be stacking the deck against Katniss and Peeta. The Victors would be the youngest, deadliest, and most amoral among them. If she killed Everdeen, Snow would reward her. If she died, he'd be free of a liability who had assassinated more than twenty people for him. It was a masterstroke._

_Pan called her name, and Lupus after, although Brutus fucked that up nice. Idiot. Dido went with her to the Capitol. Honorius and Virtus went for Brutus. No visits in the Justice Building this year. No last words of advice from Boudicca._

_Gloss whispered to her during training that he thought the lower districts were plotting something, maybe even 4 too. Enobaria rolled her eyes. It was the Hunger Games. They were all plotting something. It didn't stop her from getting a good look at the Girl on Fire at the sword station, and exchanging a few pleasantries about good steel and arm strength. Okay, she tried to intimidate the sullen coal girl. It worked too. Course then Katniss played around with her bow and arrows and the feeling was mutual. There were no bows in Enobaria's arena. There would be in this one, for certain._

_It wasn't until the very end, when Gloss and Cashmere and Brutus were all dead and she was fighting Finnick Odair and he was very much not trying to kill her that she knew that something was coming. Something big._

"_Come with me" he whispered through clenched teeth as he blocked her sword with his trident. "Come help me with the others."_

_And somehow Enobaria didn't think he meant her to help him kill his allies, but she came anyway and arrived just in time for Everdeen to blow up the arena._

_Johanna and Peeta led the Capitol on a merry chase through half the arena before they were caught. Enobaria didn't even try to run._

_Weeks of torture. Months of isolation. Jabberjays. A torn sheet wrapped around the nub of a camera._

_She was ready to die. They wouldn't let her._

_As winter drew closer, a special team from District 13 infiltrated the Capitol to free the captive Victors. Unbeknownst to most of the team, Boggs had special orders from Coin to retrieve Enobaria as well. Coin could make use of the Victor from 2. And if she wasn't cooperative, she'd be disposed of. In self-defense, of course, so no one could say the Mockingjay Agreement had been violated._

_When it became clear that the Catacombs had been compromised, Snow sent his orders. Let them take Peeta. Keep Annie if it was possible. Retrieve Enobaria at all costs._

_It made no difference to Coin or Snow._

_The cell was empty._

_Enobaria was already gone._


	22. Epilogue

**AN: I posted the Interim and the Epilogue at the same time. If you missed the Interim, go back and read that first.**

* * *

**Epilogue**

I stand outside the cabin, breathing in the deep, crisp air. The smell of earth and loam rise up from the gardens. To the east, the sun is just breaking over the horizon, turning the fields of pumpkins and tomatoes into a black and pink patchwork of shadows. Somewhere nearby, a cock crows and a goat gives an indignant bleat.

Another day begins in District 11.

I'm in my nightgown, a quilt wrapped around me for warmth. I look out across the fields – my fields, in my home – to where the wall rises, half ruined, no longer marking the borders of District 11. There are vines creeping up its grey concrete walls with a sort of red flower that was in full bloom a month ago. Such a small thing, to tear down the Capitol's wall. In a few more decades, it will be nothing but rubble.

I hear the cabin door close behind me, footsteps coming down the lawn towards me. I feel his presence at my back and lean into him. He's bare-chested and barefoot. I breathe deeply again and smell lemon and pine. His scent.

"You're up early," says Matthos. I love the sound of his voice, deep and slow and so different from the cocksure young man I met so many years ago.

"You're up late," I reply. "Your cousins have been doing their chores for an hour already."

"Owner's privilege," he says as he always does.

"Victor's privilege," I say.

He kisses the top of my head and lets his fingers run through my many long, black braids. We stand there for a few more minutes, or hours. The sun finishes its slow rise and the birds chime in with their lustrous songs. There are mockingjays among them. The scientists in 3 say they're beginning to die out, that the unstable DNA of the jabberjays is finally taking its toll. Doesn't seem to make any difference in 11. They're always here.

"Bad dreams?" Matthos asks after a while.

"Old dreams," I say. Old dreams of dead children. Children long bones and dust, like my nightmares. Shadows of themselves, with little power left.

"I don't think it's fair sometime," I say as I turn around and look my husband in the eye.

"That I weigh fifty more pounds than you, stand a foot taller, but you can still whoop my ass?"

"No," I say. "That I'm so happy."

I kiss him then, long and deep. His kisses taste of lemons.

Matthos breaks away and looks me deep in the eye. "And why wouldn't you deserve happiness, Enobaria Malachite?"

I turn away and clutch his hand over my shoulder. "I was the worst Victor."

"Bullshit," he says as his grip tightens. "Don't you ever say that. I watched the Games, same as you. There were plenty worse."

"No. I was the worst. But it's okay."

He doesn't try to argue again, for which I'm grateful. He's heard it all before, my insecurities, my fears, my nightmares. He's always there to talk them or sing them or kiss them away. Ever since I stepped off the train car after the rescue from the cells of the Capitol and he was there waiting. "Welcome back, Enobaria Malachite," he said with a wide smile and for the first time in thirteen years I let myself cry.

District 11 paid their debt in full. Avoxes who had originally come from 11 broke out of the Capitol and took me with them, just before Snow or Coin could snatch me up. I saved them from the Speaker, and they saved me in turn. In every way a woman can be saved. They kept me hidden throughout the rebellion, safe from both factions of the war, safe from vengeance. Plutarch brought me back for the fiasco that was Snow's execution, and after Paylor stepped into office I was allowed to disappear into obscurity. By then there was only one place to return to. District 2 had nothing left for me.

MawMaw Lime was right. The bonds of blood are strong, and they brought me home.

From the cabin, a phone begins to ring. I frown. There are precious few who have our number. I give Matthos one confused look and return into the cozy one-story house, step around the mismatched furniture, and pick up the ancient phone that sits on an old whiskey barrel.

"What," I say.

"Oh, well hello," comes a voice from the other end. "Oh, it is good to hear your voice again!"

I frown. "Who is this? How did you get this number?"

"From Haymitch, of course. Oh how are you Enobaria? I haven't seen you in months. Ednick misses his Aunt Baria. You should come visit!"

I let out a sigh of half exasperation and half amusement. "Hello, Annie."

Her voice is suddenly serious. "Enobaria, I need to call in a favor. For Finnick."

Dread wells up in my chest. Matthos is beside me now and I grip his hand again. "Annie, what's happened?"

I hear her breathing deeply on the other end of the line. "It's….it's Katniss. Enobaria, they've taken her. Katniss is gone."

**To Be Continued In**

**The Victors Project**

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**AN: It has taken me eighteen months to get to the end of this work. I owe a debt of gratitude to each and every person who has stood with me the whole way through, and to all of you who picked up on Enobaria's journey along the way. Your support through my various hiatuses, breaks, and life changes has meant the world to me.**

**Enobaria will return in **_**The Victors Project.**_


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